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CATHERINE'S  CHILD 


BY 

MRS.  HENRY  DE  LA  PASTURE 


AUTHOR  OF        PETER  S  MOTHER       ; 

'  THE    LONELY   LADY    OF   CROSVENOR    SQUARE ' 

"the  MAN  FROM  AMERICA,"  BTC. 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 

31   WEST  TWENTY-THIRD  STREET 
1909 


Copyright 

E.  P.  DuTTON  &  Company 

1908 


tTbe  Itniclierbocltcr  press,  Dew  l^rli 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD 


Only  if  wakening  to  sad  truth  at  last, 
The  bitterness  to  come,  the  sweetness  past, 
When  thou  art  vexed,  then  turn  again  to  see 
Thou  hast  loved  Hope — but  Memory  has  loved  thee. 

Hood. 


CHAPTER  I 

Philippa  Adelstane  was  sixteen  years  old,  and 
the  heiress-presumptive  of  Welwysbere  Abbey,  in 
the  county  of  Devon ;  of  the  great  property  apper- 
taining thereto,  and  of  a  very  considerable  fortune 
besides. 

She  lived  with  her  mother,  Catherine,  the  widow 
of  the  late  Sir  Philip  Adelstane,  at  Shepherd's 
Rest,  a  small  farmhouse  on  the  side  of  a  steep 
wooded  hill,  which  afforded  views  of  a  fair  broad 
valley  and  of  a  wide  expanse  of  agricultural 
country  divided  into  chessboard  squares  of  ara- 
ble and  pasture,  and  backed  by  a  far-reaching 
chain  of  blue  hills. 

Below  the  cottage  where  Philippa  dwelt  could 
be  discerned  the  turrets  of  the  Abbey  among  the 

I 


2  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

trees  of  the  deer-park.  The  farms  of  her  expected 
inheritance  were  scattered  over  the  hillsides. 
In  the  valley  itself,  the  low  roofs  of  Welwysbere 
village  bordered  a  single  street,  dominated  at  one 
end  by  the  square  brown  tower  of  the  village 
church,  and  at  the  other  by  Squire  Chilcott's 
white  house,  which  stood  a  little  apart,  sur- 
rounded by  its  own  groimds  and  solid  farm 
buildings. 

Welwysbere,  being  entailed  in  the  male  line, 
was  now  the  property  of  Sir  Cecil  Adelstane,  who 
had  succeeded  his  uncle.  Sir  Philip.  But  Sir  Cecil 
had  been  married  many  years  and  was  yet 
childless,  so  that  the  eventual  succession  of 
Philippa  to  her  late  father's  estate  appeared 
certain. 

Sir  Cecil  had  almost  ceased  to  regret  the  non- 
arrival  of  his  expected  sons;  he  was  fond  of 
his  young  cousin,  and  proud  of  her  good  looks, 
which  nearly  resembled  his  own. 

His  family  pride  was  further  soothed  by  the 
reflection  that  it  would  not  be  the  first  time  in  the 
history  of  the  Adelstanes  that  the  Abbey  had 
descended  through  a  female,  and  that  Philippa's 
son  would  be  entitled  to  assume  the  name  and 
arms  of  the  family,  as  the  son  of  her  ancestress 
had  done  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  nor 
were  his  descendants  a  penny  the  worse  for  the 
circumstance. 

But  if  Philippa  had  inherited  her  fine  features, 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  3 

straight  profile,  and  haughty  expression  from 
her  father,  she  no  less  resembled  her  grand- 
mother, Lady  Sarah  Adelstane,  in  the  brightness 
of  her  colouring,  her  tall,  well-formed  figure, 
and  the  ruddy  tint  of  her  splendid  chestnut  hair. 

Old  Lady  Sarah  recognised  the  reproduction 
of  her  former  self  with  unfeigned  pleasure,  and 
when  she  learned  that  Philippa,  in  addition  to 
her  beauty,  had  also  inherited  her  early  wilful- 
ness and  headstrong  temper,  she  was  more 
amused  than  concerned.  Lady  Sarah  had  long 
since  acquired  philosophy,  a  possession  which 
doubles  in  value  with  every  year  of  advancing  age. 

She  was  no  longer  beautiful,  but  she  insisted, 
with  great  spirit,  upon  rendering  herself  as  pic- 
turesque as  possible.  Her  height  had  dwindled, 
for  the  burden  of  years  weighed  down  her  shoul- 
ders in  spite  of  the  most  gallant  efforts  she  could 
make;  but  her  blue  eyes  were  still  bright,  her 
white  wig  was  becomingly  dressed,  and  her  deli- 
cate wrinkled  face  was  even  shrewder  and  merrier 
now  than  in  the  days  of  her  youth. 

On  Philippa's  face  the  merriment  was  lacking. 
Though  not  so  entirely  devoid  of  humour  as 
her  cousin,  Sir  Cecil,  she  was  yet  too  young  to 
appreciate  her  grandmother's  light-heartedness. 
The  levity  of  Lady  Sarah  pained  no  less  than  it 
puzzled  her. 

Lady  Sarah  had  passed  her  eighty-second 
birthday;   thus,   since  she  could  no  longer  ex- 


4  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

tort  her  friends'  admiration  for  her  youth,  she 
liked  to  astonish  them  with  her  age,  and  by  add- 
ing an  imaginary  decade  was  enabled  to  al- 
lude to  herself  as  a  nonagenarian  with  perfect 
cheerfulness. 

She  did  not  see  her  grandchild  often.  She 
lived  in  London,  and  spent  her  winters  abroad; 
but  as  the  little  house  in  Curzon  Street  was  too 
small  to  accommodate  visitors,  and  as  Philippa's 
mother  seldom  or  never  left  home,  their  meetings 
were  confined  to  the  rare  occasions  when  the  old 
lady  took  it  into  her  head  to  visit  her  grandson 
at  Welwysbere. 

These  visits  were  infrequent,  for,  though  she 
was  fond  of  Sir  Cecil,  she  detested  his  wife, 
Augusta;  and  was  convinced  besides  that  the 
damp  of  the  West  Country  was  detrimental  to  her 
constitution. 

About  the  time  of  her  granddaughter's  six- 
teenth birthday,  however,  she  invited  herself  to 
the  Abbey  for  Whitsuntide,  and  Philippa  made 
haste  to  acquaint  her  mother  with  the  news  that 
Lady  Sarah  was  coming. 

She  entered  the  oak  parlour  of  Shepherd's 
Rest  breathless  with  the  haste  she  had  made  in 
climbing  the  narrow  high-banked,  winding  lane 
from  the  village  to  her  home. 

"Granny  is  coming  to  the  Abbey,  mother," 
cried  Philippa,  "  and  Cousin  Augusta  says  that 
when  they  all  go  back  to  town  after  Whitsuntide 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  5 

she  wants  to  take  me  with  her.  Oh,  mother,  I 
like  Cousin  Augusta  better  and  better  every 
moment,  she  is  so  deliciously  kind  to  me.  I  had 
no  idea  she  was  such  an  angel.  To  be  sure  I 
was  only  a  child  when  I  saw  her  last — ^not  four- 
teen— and  she  owns  quite  frankly  that  she  never 
cared  for  children.  But  now  I  am  grown  up 
we. are  to  be  real  friends.  I  think  it's  sweet  of 
her  to  be  friends  with  me,  don't  you?" 

"My  darling,  how  you  have  overheated  your- 
self," said  Catherine. 

Philippa  flung  her  hat  on  to  the  sofa,  and  her 
gloves  after  it,  and  her  mother  picked  them  up 
as  they  fell  on  the  floor. 

"Bother!"  said  Philippa,  "and  I  thought  you 
would  be  so  excited  to  hear  the  news  about 
Granny,  mother.    I  almost  ran  all  the  way." 

"So  I  am,  very  much  excited,"  said  her  mother 
placidly.  "But  for  all  that  I  wish  you  would 
not  run  uphill  in  this  warm  weather.  I  am  very 
glad  Granny  is  coming,  and  we  will  go  together 
to  call  upon  her  directly  she  arrives." 

"Yes,  yes.  But  about  my  going  to  town, 
mamma?  Don't  begin  by  saying  at  once  that 
I  am  not  to  go,  as  you  always  do " 

"You  know  I  never  accept  such  invitations 
for  you,  Phil." 

"Yes,  but  listen,"  said  her  daughter,  im- 
ploringly. "It  is  quite  different  from  Cousin 
Augusta's  usual  written  invitations,  which  you 


6  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

used  to  say  were  hollow  (though  I  am  certain 
now  they  couldn't  have  been).  She  really 
means  it,  and  Cousin  Cecil  wants  me  to  go  too; 
and,  what  is  more,  they  are  not  only  going  to 
ask  you  themselves,  but  they  are  going  to  get 
Granny  to  speak  to  you  about  it." 

"Indeed,"  said  Catherine. 

She  was  not  readily  displeased,  but  the  colour 
rose  in  her  soft  face. 

Philippa  stood  looking  down  upon  her 
mother,  tapping  an  impatient  foot  upon  the 
polished  oaken  floor  of  the  little  parlour. 

Against  the  background  of  innumerable  books 
which  lined  the  room  from  floor  to  ceiling  her 
handsome,  fresh-coloured  face  and  bright  hair 
stood  out  with  striking  effect. 

Catherine  looked  up  from  the  writing-table, 
where  she  had  been  making  up  her  farm  accounts, 
at  the  dearly  loved  face,  now  deeply  flushed 
with  purest  carmine ;  at  the  curved  mouth,  with 
its  short  upper  lip  and  comers  sulkily  drooping; 
at  the  straight  brows  drawTi  into  a  frown  above 
the  black-lashed  deep-blue  eyes. 

"After  all,  I'm  sixteen,"  said  Philippa,  rebel- 
liously. 

"At  sixteen,"  said  Catherine,  and  she  tried  to 
laugh,  "London  is,  happily,  not  obligatory. 
You  will  not  come  out  for  another  two  years, 
you  know." 

"But  that's  no  reason  why  I  should  never 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  7 

go  anywhere  nor  have  any  pleasure,  no  matter 
who  asks  me,"  cried  Philippa,  with  a  sudden 
smothered  sob.  "Cousin  Augusta  says  I  ought 
to  go  to  town  before  I  come  out,  and  make 
friends  with  people  of  my  own  age,  and  Cousin 
Cecil  thinks  so  too.  You  know  he  never  says 
anything  without  thinking  it  over.  And,  after 
all,  he's  my  nearest  relation,  and  my  guardian 
in  a  way." 

"No,"  said  Catherine,  "it  is  I  that  am  your 
guardian,  though  I  very  gladly  take  counsel  with 
your  Cousin  Cecil.  Sit  down,  my  darling,  and 
let  us  talk  it  over  quietly  together.  If  you 
want  to  go  to  town  so  much,  though  it  is  a  bad 
time  of  the  year  for  me  to  get  away — ^what  with 
the  hay  and  one  thing  and  another — still,  you 
come  first,  and  I  will  see  what  can  be  done.  But 
I  have  no  idea  of  handing  you  over  to  Augusta. 
I  will  take  you  myself,  darling.  Only,  I  thought 
last  time  we  went  to  London,  Phil,  that  the  trip 
was  not  a  success.  You  said  you  never  wished 
to  go  again." 

"Of  course  it  wasn't  a  success,"  said  Philippa. 
"Why,  you  know  I  hated  it.  You  hated  it  your- 
self, mother.  It  would  be  just  like  it  was  before 
if  you  took  me.  A  horrid  hotel,  and  at  the  last 
moment  Aunt  Dulcinea  would  insist  on  coming 
with  us;  and  there  we  should  be,  like  regular 
country  cousins,  all  of  us  bewildered  and  not 
knowing  where  to  go  or  what  to  do,  and  every- 


8  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

thing  hatefiil.  I  woiild  rather  stop  at  home  if  we 
are  to  go  like  that," 

"It  would  not  be  like  that  again,"  said  Cather- 
ine, but  her  mind  misgave  her  faintly.  "You 
are  older  now,  and  we  could  go  to  concerts  and 
theatres  and  picture-galleries,  and — and — I  dare- 
say Aunt  Dulcinea  wouldn't  want  to  come." 

"You  know  she  would''  said  Philippa.  "And 
you'd  say  it  was  unkind  not  to  take  her.  Of  course 
we  can't  hurt  her  feelings — and  theatres  and 
concerts  are  all  very  well  in  their  way " 

"  I  should  think  so,"  said  Catherine.  "  Why, 
when  I  was  your  age " 

"Oh,  mother,  don't"  said  Philippa,  despairingly. 
"I  know  so  exactly  what  you're  going  to  say. 
How  a  travelling  circus  or  a  fair  seemed  the  wildest 
excitement  to  you  when  you  lived  with  your  cross 
old  aunt  in  Calais;  and  how  you  were  quite 
contented  to  go  down  to  the  pier  every  day  with 
Sophy,  and  see  the  steamer  come  in;  and  how 
grateful  you  were  to  my  father  when  he  bought 
you  a  sixpenny  fairing.  You  have  told  me  a 
thousand  times." 

"It  is  quite  true.  I  have  told  you  very  often," 
Catherine  acknowledged ;  but  he  felt  a  little  pang, 
nevertheless,  as  she  heard  the  sacred  recollections 
of  her  girlhood  thus  ruthlessly  epitomised.  ' '  It  did 
not  take  very  much  to  content  me  in  those  days." 

"Well,  I  am  not  a  bit  like  you,  and  it  wouldn't 
have  contented  me"  said  Philippa. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  9 

"I  don't  know  what  would  content  you,  Phil, 
you  are  so  restless." 

"It  would  content  me  to  go  to  London  with 
Cousin  Augusta." 

"And  leave  me — ?"  There  was  a  sound  of 
pain  in  Catherine's  low  voice. 

"Of  course,  if  you  put  it  like  that,"  cried  Philippa, 
angrily,  "it  takes  away  all  the  pleasure.  But 
either  way  it  will  be  horrid,  I  suppose ;  everything 
always  is.  If  you  don't  come,  you  will  think  me 
cruel  and  heartless  to  go  without  you,  though  I 
don't  feel  a  bit  like  that,"  and  she  shed  tears, 
even  whilst  resisting  with  impatience  her  mother's 
attempted  caress.  "And  if  you  come,  why,  I 
know  you  will  hate  it,  and  have  nothing  to  do, 
and  only  be  longing  to  get  back  to  the  farm  and 
the  dairy,  and  feeling  sure  everything  is  going 
to  rack  and  ruin  without  you,  as  of  course  it  will." 

"I  always  meant  to  take  a  house  in  London 
when  you  were  eighteen,"  said  Catherine,  meekly. 

"What  would  be  the  good  of  that?  You  don't 
know  anybody  in  London,"  sobbed  Philippa. 

"But  Lady  Sarah  does.  She  would  take  care 
you  had  all  the  proper  invitations.  And  I  could 
go  everywhere  with  you,  as  your  mother  should." 

"Not  nowadays,"  said  Philippa.  "It's  a 
most  old-fashioned  idea,  mother.  And  it's  all 
very  well;  but,  as  Cousin  Augusta  says.  Granny 
can't  go  on  for  ever;  her  friends  are  as  old  as  the 
hills ;  even  if  she  would  be  bothered  to  think  about 


10  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

me,  which  I  am  sure  she  wouldn't.  And  when 
Cousin  Augusta  is  so  kind,  and  when  you  know 
how  much  I  love  her " 

"Your  love  is  only  two  days  old,"  said  Cath- 
erine, smiling. 

"It's  just  as  real  as  though  I  had  known  her 
for  years.  More  real,  for  I  haven't  had  time  to  get 
tired  of  her,"  said  Philippa,  innocently.  "Oh, 
mother,  I  do  think  it's  very  hard  I'm  to  be  cooped 
up  in  this  horrid,  dull  old  farmhouse  for  two 
whole  years  more.  You  know  yourself  every  one 
wonders  why  we  live  here  at  all." 

Catherine  was  silent;  her  gentle  eyes  regarded 
her  daughter  wistfully.  But  whilst  Philippa 
was  in  this  mood  she  could  not  remind  her  why 
she  held  the  little  house  sacred.  She  said  to 
herself,  besides,  that  the  child  had  some  reason 
on  her  side.  Catherine  was  aware  that  the  family 
in  general  criticised  her  home,  and  found  it  a 
most  unsuitable  residence  for  the  young  heiress 
of  Welwysbere. 

"It  won't  be  so  dull  for  you  this  Whitsuntide, 
my  darling,  since  Augusta  has  come  home,  and 
especially  since  you  have  taken  this  sudden 
liking  for  her." 

"But  she  will  be  gone  back  to  town  in  a  few 
days.  And  she  said  herself  that  they  would  be  a 
very  dull  party — all  elderly  people — only  Granny, 
and  the  Raits,  and  old  Lord  John " 

"Your  Cousin  Cecil  said  they  would  certainly 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  11 

spend  this  summer  down  here,  after  their  long 
absence  from  Devonshire." 

"But  Cousin  Augusta  hasn't  said  so,"  said 
Philippa,  shrewdly. 

"Anyway,  David  Moore  will  be  at  Bridescombe," 
said  poor  Catherine,  searching  for  further  consola- 
tion. "You  were  so  anxious  to  see  him  when 
we  read  about  him  in  the  newspapers  during  the 
war." 

"Of  course  I  want  to  see  him,"  said  Philippa, 
dolefully.  "Any  one  would  like  to  see  a  hero  like 
that.  But  I  should  see  him  in  London  just  as 
well  if  he's  going  to  be  at  the  War  Office.  Besides, 
after  all,  he's  Hector  and  Lily  Chilcott's  uncle, 
not  mine." 

Catherine  glanced  at  her  beautiful  daughter, 
and  smiled  tenderly  to  herself.  What  a  child — 
what  a  baby  she  was  yet,  though  she  looked  so 
tall  and  womanly! 

"I  am  looking  forward  to  seeing  David  again 
very  much.  The  brother  of  my  dearest  friend. 
As  a  youth  he  used  to  be  something  like  poor 
Delia,  quick  and  bright  and  decided  as  she  was. 
My  heart  aches  for  him,  coming  home  to  find  only 
her  grave — and  the  children." 

"But,  mother — she  died  such  years  ago——'* 

"It  does  not  seem  so  very  long  ago  to  me." 

"It's  all  very  well  for  you  and  Cousin  George. 
I  suppose  he  will  be  glad  to  see  his  poor  wife's 
brother.     But  I  do  not  see  how  his  coming  can 


12  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

make  any  difference  to  me.  He  will  only  be  just 
another  old  person,  like  Cousin  George  or  Cousin 
Cecil." 

"He  is  younger  than  George  or  Cecil;  they 
are  over  forty,  like  Augusta." 

''She  doesn't  look  nearly  so  old  as  they  do," 
said  Augusta's  faithful  worshipper. 

"David  cannot  be  more  than  six-and-thirty — 
still  a  yoimg  man." 

"Mother,  how  can  you!  Why,  he's  older  than 
you.  And  if  he  will  be  a  companion  for  you  and 
Cousin  George,  it  ought  surely  to  make  it  all  the 
easier  for  you  to  let  me  go  to  London  with  Cousin 
Augusta,  and  have  a  little  pleasure  in  life  whilst 
I'm  still  yoimg  enough  to  enjoy  it,  instead  of 
bottling  me  up  here  for  ever  and  ever  with  no  one 
to  speak  to  and  nothing  to  do." 

* '  I  wish  Augusta  had  not  come  down  here  at  all 
to  unsettle  you  like  this." 

"Mother,  I  won't  have  you  blaming  her," 
said  Philippa,  with  flashing  eyes.  "You  know 
very  well  I've  been  unsettled  for  ever  so  long, 
and  wishing  I  could  go  anywhere  or  do  anything 
fresh  and  different." 

Catherine  could  not  deny  the  truth  of  this 
statement. 

"I  wish  you  would  not  cry,  my  darling.  It 
will  distress  your  Aunt  Dulcinea  so  terribly  when 
she  comes  in." 

"Bother  Aunt  Dulcinea!     You  think  of  every 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  13 

one's  feelings  but  mine,"  said  Philippa,  woefully. 

Catherine  could  not  help  smiling. 

"Don't  be  a  goose,  Phil.  Come  upstairs,  and 
let  me  bathe  your  eyes  and  straighten  this  ruffled 
mass  of  hair,  and  we  will  try  to  come  to  a  better 
understanding  over  this  matter." 

Philippa  suflered  her  mother  to  take  her  arm 
and  lead  her  upstairs.  She  had  no  maid  of  her 
own — another  family  grievance — and  she  was 
accustomed  to  be  tended  almost  like  an  infant  by 
those  unwearying  hands.  But  though  submissive 
she  was  pertinacious,  and  did  not  allow  any 
postponement  or  evasion  of  her  demand. 

"I'm  sure  I'm  very  reasonable,  mother.  I  only 
want  you  not  to  decide  against  my  going  until 
you  have  heard  what  Cousin  Cecil  has  to  say," 
she  said;  and  it  was  hard  for  Catherine  to  resist 
her  child's  entreaty  when  those  fresh  lips  were 
pressed  against  her  cheek  and  when  the  beloved 
voice  took  a  coaxing  accent. 

"There  are  your  lessons,  you  know,  my  darling." 

"Am  I  never  to  have  a  holiday  ? ' '  cried  Philippa, 
tragically. 

"Your  life  is  one  long  holiday,  I  think." 

"It  may  seem  so  to  you,  but  it  doesn't  to  me, 
what  with  French  reading  and  horrid  old  Moli^re, 
and  dull  old  biographies  and  things,"  said  Philippa 
resentfully. 

"Do  you  want  to  learn  nothing  more — at 
sixteen?" 


14  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"I  know  quite  as  much  as  most  people.  Cousin 
Augusta  can't  even  spell,  and  yet  I  am  sure  she  is 
fashionable  and  delightful,  and  nobody  cares. 
Oh,  mother,  forget  to  preach  for  once,  and  say  you 
will  let  me  just  pay  this  one  visit." 

"I  will  see  about  it,"  said  Catherine,  in  the 
relenting  tone  that  was  generally  the  prelude  to 
giving  way,  as  Philippa  well  knew. 

"You  promise?" 

"I  promise  anyway,"  said  her  mother,  "to 
consult  your  grandmother  before  I  decide  finally 
one  way  or  the  other." 

Catherine  had  been  a  widow  for  so  many 
years  that  her  grief  for  her  husband  had  become 
only  the  shadow  and  remembrance  of  sorrow. 

She  had  been  very  young,  hardly  nineteen, 
when  Sir  Philip  died  and  his  posthumous  child 
was  bom.  From  that  time  onwards  she  had 
made  her  home  in  this  cottage  on  the  hillside, 
to  which  she  had  taken  a  romantic  fancy  shortly 
before  his  death,  and  which  he  had  bought  and 
given  to  her  for  her  own. 

Her  girlhood  had  been  passed  in  almost  entire 
seclusion,  and  her  brief  experience  of  marriage, 
though  it  had  widened  her  outlook  and  completed 
the  sole  romance  of  her  life,  had  not  yet  inspired 
her  with  any  great  courage  or  desire  to  face  again 
the  world  from  which  she  had  timidly  sought 
refuge  at  Shepherd's  Rest. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  15 

From  her  latticed  windows  she  beheld  the  turrets 
of  the  great  house  where  for  so  short  a  space 
of  time  she  had  nominally  reigned  as  mistress 
— an  inexperienced  girl,  bewildered  with  her 
own  happiness  and  frightened  at  her  unexpected 
elevation. 

But  if  the  mighty  pile  of  ancient  buildings 
recalled  her  past  importance,  the  square  tower 
of  the  old  church  in  the  valley  below  no  less 
solemnly  and  silently  reminded  her  of  the  vanity 
of  all  earthly  greatness,  for  in  its  shadow  stood 
the  broken  column  which  marked  Sir  Philip 
Adelstane's  grave. 

Catherine  had  never  found  her  life  at  Shep- 
herd's Rest  dull.  Independence  has  its  own 
charm,  and  she  enjoyed  the  sensation  of  real 
ownership  for  the  first  time  when  she  looked 
around  her  tiny  domain. 

She  planned  anew  her  garden,  which  shone  in 
the  heart  of  the  woods  like  a  coloured  jewel  in  a 
dark  setting.  She  lined  her  low  oak  parlour  with 
shelves  from  floor  to  ceiling,  and  filled  those 
shelves  with  books;  for  of  reading  Catherine 
had  never  had,  and  perhaps  never  would  have, 
enough.  Thus,  though  her  outer  existence  ap- 
peared prosaic,  her  inner  life  was  filled  with 
colour  and  fancy. 

She  interested  herself  besides  so  deeply  in 
her  farm  and  dairy,  that  she  presently  grew  prac- 
tical, and,  after  buying  her  experience  somewhat 


16  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

dearly,  foiind  that  in  Devonshire,  at  least,  it  is 
possible  to  make  farming  pay. 

She  reclaimed  rough  land,  planted  orchards, 
studied  forestry,  learnt  something  about  cattle, 
and  brewed  excellent  cider;  keeping  all  within 
and  without  her  snug  home  in  such  a  state  of 
order,  neatness,  and  beauty  that  no  one  could 
behold  it  and  not  be  cheered  by  its  aspect. 

An  energetic  and  faithful  Somersetshire  woman, 
one  Charlotte  Roper,  aided  her  mistress  within 
doors,  and  without  an  aged  local  wiseacre  toiled, 
aided  by  a  burly  labourer  and  by  Charlotte 
Roper's  son  Johnny,  who  took  charge  of  Philippa's 
pony,  ran  errands,  and  worked  in  the  garden  under 
his  lady's  personal  supervision. 

It  pleased  Catherine  to  know  that  her  income 
was  rolling  itself  up  into  a  fortune  for  Philippa 
which  would  make  her  independent,  even  if 
the  long-expected  and  now  improbable  son  were 
bom  to  Sir  Cecil  Adelstane;  it  pleased  her  yet 
more  to  be  able  to  give  liberal  assistance  to  her 
poorer  neighbours  in  time  of  need,  and  to  be 
justified  in  affording  a  domicile  to  her  old  aunt. 
Miss  Dulcinea  Chilcott,  whose  last  days  she  thus 
rendered  happy  and  peaceful,  and  whose  presence 
had  lent  protection  to  her  niece's  youth  and 
loneliness. 

Miss  Dulcinea,  in  spite  of  her  advancing  age, 
was  rarely  to  be  found  at  home.  She  had  lifelong 
friends  in  the  neighbourhood  and  in  the  adjacent 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  17 

town  of  Ilverton;  she  knew  every  man,  woman, 
and  child  in  the  village  of  Welwysbere,  visited 
every  cottage  within  reach,  and  read  the  Bible 
to  the  inmates  whether  they  liked  it  or  not.  Most 
of  them  liked  it,  and  all  of  them  liked  her,  for 
they  had  known  her  from  childhood,  and  her 
friendship  was  tried  and  trusted.  The  villagers 
believed  in  her  wisdom  implicitly,  and  few  of 
them  cared  to  take  the  doctor's  medicine  until 
it  had  been  handed  to  Miss  Dulcinea  for  approval. 

A  dark  disbelief  in  their  physician,  together 
with  constant  recourse  to  his  aid  in  the  most 
trifling  ailments,  was  prevalent  in  Welwysbere. 

As  men  who  were  in  good  health  could  not,  or 
would  not,  leave  their  work,  it  was  generally 
the  patient  himself  who  rose  from  the  bed  of 
suffering  and  walked  to  Ilverton  and  back — seven 
miles — to  visit  the  doctor  and  obtain  remedies 
from  the  dispensary. 

If  the  illness  were  complicated,  and  the  invalid 
in  pain  or  unusually  feverish,  he  would  perhaps 
treat  himself  to  a  return  ticket  for  Exeter;  since 
the  further  away  the  physician  lived  the  more 
efficacious  his  aid  was  considered  likely  to  be. 

The  excitement  of  the  journey  usually  cheered 
the  sufferer,  as  the  subsequent  history  of  the 
interview  with  his  medical  adviser  cheered  his 
family  and  neighbours,  for  whose  benefit  it  would 
be  many  times  recounted  in  detail. 

Miss  Dulcinea  was  too  simple  to  quarrel  with 


18  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

these  methods,  and  there  was  some  truth  in  her 
excuses  to  Catherine. 

"You  laugh  at  them,  dariing,  but,  after  all, 
they  do  just  what  their  betters  do,  only  in  a 
humbler  way.  They  can't  afford  to  go  further 
than  the  next  village  or  town,  but  we  send  our 
invalids  travelling  about  to  look  for  health  in 
far  countries,  to  visit  chilly  hotels  with  doubtful 
drains  and  strange  doctors,  when  they  would 
get  well  or  die  far  more  comfortably  in  their  own 
homes,  with  their  own  doctors  to  attend  them 
and  their  own  people  round  them.  I  don't  see 
that  the  Welwysbere  folk  are  so  very  unlike  us  in 
their  methods." 

But  Catherine's  laughter  was  very  gentle,  and 
expressed  no  contempt  for  Miss  Dulcinea's  sim- 
plicity. She  felt  that  she  had,  herself,  no  vocation 
to  set  the  village  to  rights,  and  contented  herself 
with  her  garden,  her  household,  her  farm,  and  the 
upbringing  of  Philippa. 

For  above  and  beyond  all  other  cares  and  inter- 
ests, or  the  occupations  she  so  happily  found 
for  herself,  stood  Catherine's  idol,  her  only 
child. 

She  guarded  Philippa's  infancy  and  childhood 
with  jealous  care,  permitting  no  hands  but  her 
own  to  tend  the  little  maid ;  nursing  her,  teaching 
her,  and  playing  with  her,  and  sleeping  nightly 
by  the  side  of  the  cot  which  contained  her  treasure. 

Philippa,  as  was  natural,  rewarded  this  exclusive 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  19 

devotion  by  a  tyranny  that  was  absolute  in  her 
babyhood,  and  only  modified  outwardly  as  she 
became  older.  She  grew  up  exceedingly  unlike 
the  daughter  of  Catherine's  dreams. 

Her  mother  dwelt  sometimes  with  astonishment 
upon  her  recollections  of  herself  at  sixteen.  She 
recalled  a  quiet,  rather  timid  maiden,  grateful 
for  the  smallest  notice,  interested  in  the  smallest 
happenings,  curled  up  for  hours  of  breathless 
absorption  in  every  volume  that  came  her  way; 
learning  poems  by  heart  for  love;  sewing  endless 
seams  with  patient  neatness;  assisting  in  the 
manage;  and  writing  business  letters  in  a  copper- 
plate hand  at  her  aunt's  dictation. 

Perhaps  she  recalled  less  clearly  the  fact  that 
she  would  hardly  have  become  so  proficient  in 
such  duties  had  she  not  been  actually  compelled 
by  the  exigency  of  circumstances. 

The  youthful  Catherine  might  have  preferred, 
like  the  youthful  Philippa,  to  throw  her  needle- 
work on  to  the  floor,  and  escape  out  of  doors  at 
her  own  sweet  will,  had  she  been  free  to  fol- 
low her  inclinations;  but  old  Miss  Carey,  of 
Calais,  Catherine's  aunt,  having  been  a  strict  dis- 
ciplinarian, her  niece  had  dared  try  no  such 
experiment. 

Philippa  never  sat  curled  up  on  the  window-seat 
as  Catherine  had  pictured  her,  nestling  to  her 
mother's  side  and  devouring  the  story-books 
which  had  been  chosen  for  her  and  ranged  on  a 


20  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

special  shelf  within  her  reach  before  she  was 
four  years  old. 

She  never  opened  a  book  if  she  could  help  it, 
did  not  like  to  be  read  to,  and  wept  as  copiously 
over  her  lessons  as  though  a  stem  taskmaster 
were  set  over  her,  instead  of  the  gentlest  teacher 
in  the  world. 

Far  from  rejoicing  when  an  elegant  inlaid 
workbox  was  presented  to  her,  she  viewed  it  with 
indifference,  lost  the  thimble,  used  the  embroidery 
stiletto  as  a  gimlet,  and  broke  the  points  of  the 
scissors  digging  in  the  garden. 

She  took  more  interest  in  the  farm,  lavishing 
personal  affection  upon  the  stock,  and  including 
indiscriminately  in  her  friendship  the  pony,  the 
pigs,  the  cows,  and  the  aged  labourer  who  super- 
intended their  welfare.  But  she  could  not  be 
trusted  to  be  of  the  smallest  use  in  any  depart- 
ment of  the  homely  establishment. 

She  would  offer  to  help  in  the  dairy,  upset  the 
cream,  or  leave  off  churning  just  as  the  butter 
was  coming,  and  rush  away  to  do  something 
else;  she  would  solemnly  undertake  to  feed  the 
chickens,  and  forget  all  about  them;  she  would 
tear  her  frocks,  and  walk  about  ragged  and 
unconcerned;  she  ate  green  apples  and  climbed 
trees  in  spite  of  all  entreaties  to  the  contrary,  and 
was  triumphant  because  none  of  the  evil  conse- 
quences predicted  happened  to  result. 

Whenever  she  could  she  escaped  to  Bridescombe, 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  21 

to  the  society  of  her  cousins,  the  children  of  the 
widowed  squire,  George  Chilcott ;  but,  truth  to  tell, 
they  were  not  much  more  inclined  to  welcome  her 
than  her  mother  was  to  let  her  go.  Nor  did  she 
derive  much  benefit  from  their  society;  since 
Hector,  though  bigger  and  stronger  than  she  was, 
could  not  fight  a  girl,  however  unreasonable  and 
provoking  she  might  be;  while  little  Lily,  though 
willing  to  admire,  was  led  into  innumerable  scrapes 
through  her  senior's  readiness  to  defy  lawful 
authority. 

Miss  Dulcinea  found  a  thousand  excuses  for  all 
Philippa's  misdemeanours,  and,  though  Catherine 
were  ever  so  determined  that  her  daughter  should 
not  be  spoilt,  the  presence  of  a  constant  champion 
in  the  background  rendered  discipline  of  any 
kind  almost  impossible.  Philippa  was  perfectly 
aware  of  her  grand-aimt's  sympathy,  and  the 
knowledge  nullified  all  her  mother's  attempts  to 
maintain  her  own  supremacy.  Naturally  imperi- 
ous, she  grew  daily  more  inclined  to  assert  her- 
self. She  had  shown  a  generous  and  affectionate 
disposition  as  a  little  child,  but  these  qualities 
became  obscured  as  she  advanced  towards  woman- 
hood; and,  though  she  displayed  an  occasional 
careless  fondness  for  the  gentle,  foolish  old  relative 
who  was  blind  to  her  failings  and  flattered  her 
vanity,  she  did  not,  it  must  be  confessed,  sacrifice 
a  single  inclination  of  her  own  to  any  care  for 
Miss  Dulcinea's  wishes  and  comfort,  but,  on  the 


22  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

contrary,  escaped  from  her  society  whenever  it 
was  possible  to  do  so. 

Imperceptibly  her  mother's  influence  waned 
with  every  succeeding  year,  and  Catherine  found 
herself  gradually  assuming  the  false  position  of  a 
seeming  tyrant  to  the  being  she  loved  above  all 
others  in  the  world.  But  such  situations  develop 
by  very  slow  degrees,  and  she  was  herself  imaware 
of  the  cause  until  it  was  too  late  to  amend  the 
effects.  Though  they  lived  under  the  same  roof 
and  slept  side  by  side,  and  were  together  almost 
every  hour  of  the  day,  Catherine  could  not  help 
feeling  sometimes  that  her  daughter  was  in 
many  ways  becoming  as  a  stranger  to  her.  Often 
she  thought,  with  that  loving  bitterness  which  only 
mothers  know,  "  I  shall  only  have  her  a  few  years 
longer;  she  might  have  waited — she  might  have 
waited — until  she  was  quite  grown  up." 

Meanwhile,  as  Philippa  lost  her  tomboy  pro- 
clivities  and  acquired  no  love  for  rational  occupa- 
tion  to  take  their  place,  the  young  lady  found 
time  hang  heavily  upon  her  hands  and  grew 
daily  more  restless.  Perhaps  the  knowledge 
of  her  own  importance  as  the  last  representative 
of  the  Adelstane  family  had  something  to  do 
with  her  discontent.  Her  mother  had  endeavoured 
with  all  her  might  to  keep  Philippa  unspotted 
from  the  world,  isolating  her  in  their  country 
cottage,  and  bringing  her  up  simply  and  humbly; 
but  it  is  a  fact  that  worldliness  is  not  confined  to 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  23 

cities,  and  in  this  obscure  comer  of  the  West  there 
were  plenty  of  flatterers  ready  to  pay  court  to  the 
little  heiress  of  Welwysbere,  and  to  comment 
upon  the  position  that  should  have  been  hers 
as  her  father's  daughter. 

Philippa  desired  she  knew  not  what;  but  cer- 
tainly a  change  from  the  quiet  sameness  of  her 
everyday  life  on  the  farm.  Perhaps  to  shine,  to  be 
admired,  to  have  her  importance  recognised  in  a 
wider  sphere.  The  natural  restlessness  of  girlhood 
was  doubled  by  the  circumstances  in  which  she 
found  herself.  She  was  not  clever,  but  neither 
was  she  in  any  sense  a  dull  child;  and  she  did 
not  show  herself  to  others  the  baby  her  mother 
thought  her,  but,  on  the  contrary,  evinced  a  cer- 
tain shrewdness  and  dignity;  so  that  her  Cousin 
Cecil  believed  her  to  be  eminently  suited  by 
nature  for  the  position  awaiting  her.  Philippa's 
displays  of  idleness,  imperiousness,  and  want  of 
consideration  for  others  were,  it  must  be  confessed, 
reserved  chiefly  for  her  home,  and  the  girl  was  still 
young  enough  to  mistake  wilfulness  and  lack  of 
self-control  for  strength  of  character.  Thus, 
after  the  almost  unclouded  happiness  of  Philippa's 
early  childhood,  Catherine's  existence  had  become 
a  little  troubled  during  these  later  days,  and 
she  vaguely  perceived  that  the  time  was  approach- 
ing when  a  change  must  be  made  in  the  existing 
order  of  things.  When  Philippa,  therefore,  broke 
in  upon  her  mother's  tranquil  daily  occupations 


24  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

with  her  impetuous  demand,  the  expression  of 
her  child's  wishes  coincided,  in  a  manner,  with 
Catherine's  own  vague  determination, 

"I  shall  like  a  change  as  little  in  two  years*  time 
as  now,"  she  thought  with  a  sigh.  "Perhaps  I  am 
growing  selfish  and  too  much  absorbed  in  one 
narrow  groove.  I  know  they  all  think  so,  and 
what  everybody  thinks  is  apt  to  be  true.  After 
all,  when  I  chose  this  'little  life,'  I  did  not  know 
that  Cecil  would  have  no  children — that  Philippa 
might  be  called  upon  one  day  to  occupy  his  place. 
Perhaps  I  am  really  less  suited  to  take  her  to 
town  than  Augusta.  And  the  child  does  not  really 
want  me."  This  reflection  caused  Catherine  a 
sharp  pang,  though  she  tried  to  smile  over  it,  and 
repeated  to  herself  more  than  once  that  under 
the  circumstances  this  was  only  natural. 

"It  is  quite  true  what  Philippa  says,  I  know 
nobody  in  London,  and  should  be  a  fish  out  of 
water.  As  soon  as  Lady  Sarah  comes  I  will  ask 
her  advice.  She  is  very  wise,  and  knows  what 
Philip  would  have  wished  for  his  child.  I  will 
be  guided  by  her." 

Catherine  was,  perhaps,  slightly  consoled  by 
the  reflection  that  Lady  Sarah's  decision  would 
not  be  influenced  by  any  imdue  prejudice  in 
favour  of  Augusta. 


CHAPTER  II 

The  open  space  before  the  entrance  of  Welwysbere 
Abbey  was  surrounded  by  clumps  of  tree  azaleas, 
dipping  clouds  of  faintest  coral  and  palest  gold 
blossom  into  the  feathery  flowering  grasses  which 
rose  knee-deep  around  them,  half  hiding  the 
thickets  of  rhododendrons,  now  crowned  with 
purple  and  crimson  bloom.  Beyond  lay  the 
rolling  slopes  of  the  deer-park  and  the  steep 
green  hillocks  and  valleys,  relieved  by  all  the 
colours  of  spring — from  the  gay  rose-red  and 
snowy  white  of  the  sturdy  gnarled  hawthorns  to 
the  giant  blush  and  ivory  nosegays  of  the  spread- 
ing horse-chestnuts. 

But  though  a  group  of  persons  stood  upon  the 
lower  steps  of  the  front  door,  shading  their  eyes 
from  the  dazzling  rays  of  the  western  sun,  their 
gaze  was  not  directed  towards  the  landscape, 
but  bent  upon  a  dingy  object  which  occupied 
the  centre  of  the  drive — a  mud-spattered  auto- 
mobile, dropping  oil  upon  the  gravel,  and  emitting 
an  odour  which  overpowered  the  delicate  per- 
fumes of  the  spring. 

The  owner  of  the  machine,  a  red-faced  sporting- 
25 


26  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

looking  gentleman,  was  stooping  over  his  property 
with  an  air  of  almost  passionate  concern. 

"I  thought  she  would  have  broken  her  little 
back  coming  up  that  last  hill,"  he  said,  looking 
up  reproachfully  at  his  host. 

"It  is  very  steep,  but  the  horses  make  nothing 
of  it,"  said  Sir  Cecil,  rather  resentfully;  "I  never 
had  a  horse  who  didn't  face  it  all  right." 

"So  did  she  face  it,"  said  Mr.  Rait,  defending 
his  treasure  with  emotion.  ' '  She  faced  it  bravely, 
too,  or  we  shouldn't  be  here  now." 

"I  could  not  have  believed  she  would  bear  the 
strain,"  said  his  wife,  shaking  her  head. 

"D'ye  think  she's  all  right,  Hopkins?"  de- 
manded Mr.  Rait,  with  renewed  anxiety. 

"Seems  so,  sir,"  said  the  chauffeur  reluctantly, 
"but  it  was  taking  it  out  of  her  something  crool. 
She  ain't  built  for  this  'ere  coimtry.  It's  asking 
too  much  of  her,  that's  what  it  is." 

"I  ought  to  have  brought  the  Daimler,"  said 
Mr.  Rait,  sadly.  "You  said  so,  Blanche,  at  the 
time.  However" — ^he  cheered  up  slightly — "I 
can  send  for  her  to-morrow,  and  so  I  will." 

"Shall  we  go  and  find  Augusta  and  have  some 
tea,  Blanche?"  said  Sir  Cecil,  stiffly.  He  ignored 
his  brother-in-law  and  addressed  himself  to  Mrs. 
Rait,  who  prepared  to  follow  him,  after  a  last 
anxious  and  sympathetic  glance  at  the  motor. 

"I  daresay  you  think  we're  rather  foolish  about 
her,"  she  said,  with  a  sentimental  intonation  that 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  27 

contrasted  oddly  with  her  lean,  sensible  face  and 
shrewd  eyes;  "but  she's  such  a  little  dear,  carried 
us  thousands  of  miles." 

"I  suppose  you've  given  up  horses  altogether," 
said  Sir  Cecil,  in  his  even,  formal  tones,  as  he  led 
the  way  under  the  cool  dark  arches  of  the  oak- 
panelled  hall  to  the  garden  door. 

"Well,  except  for  himtin,'  and  we  did  precious 
little  huntin'  this  winter.  The  fact  is  it's  simply 
fascinatin'  to  go  explorin'  Europe,  which  is  what 
we  did  instead  of  stoppin'  up  at  Rait  through 
the  winter  as  usual.  You  don't  mean  to  say  you 
and  Augusta  are  still  contented  to  go  joggin'  along 
in  the  family  coach,  and  all  the  good  old  ways?" 

"I  believe  I  am  old-fashioned,  and  I  am  happy 
to  say  Augusta  continues  to  prefer  the  good  old 
ways." 

"You  don't  say  so!    Hullo!    tea  on  the  lawn! 
Come,  that's  an  innovation.      Augusta  used  to 
hate  tea  out  of  doors." 

"She  is  doing  the  fresh-air  cure." 

"I'm  sure  I'm  glad  to  hear  it.  It  was  time 
she  did  a  cure  of  some  kind,"  said  Mrs.  Rait 
cheerfully.  "I  live  in  a  thorough  draught  myself 
now,  and  look  at  me." 

Sir  Cecil  looked,  but  his  sister-in-law  was  too 
much  engrossed  in  her  observation  of  the  assem- 
bly of  persons  which  now  became  visible  at  the  far 
end  of  the  lawn  to  notice  the  dissatisfied  expres- 
sion upon  his  handsome  face. 


28  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"I  thought  Augusta  said  there  wasn't  to  be  a 
party.  Who  in  the  world  are  all  those  people 
under  the  cedar  if  there  isn't  a  party?"  she 
cried. 

'  'There  is  no  party.  My  grandmother  is  staying 
here,  and  in  consequence  of  her  advanced  age 
we  thought  it  better  to  be  quiet.  There  is  only 
Lady  Grace  Trumoin,  and  Lord  John  Trelleck, 
whom  you  know."  Mrs.  Rait  emitted  an  expres- 
sive grunt.  "The  others  are  our  neighbours, 
George  Chilcott  and  his  sister — you  remember 
them? — ^and  his  poor  wife's  brother,  Colonel 
Moore,  who  has  just  returned  to  England." 

"David  Moore?  I  know  him,  too.  Met  him  in 
South  Africa.  Splendid  chap,"  said  Mrs.  Rait 
heartily. 

"You  know  every  one,  Blanche." 

"I  go  about  the  world,  keep  my  eyes  open,  and 
pick  up  friends  all  over  the  place,"  said  Mrs. 
Rait,  who  had  equipped  a  field  hospital  at  her 
own  expense  during  the  South  African  war,  and 
quarrelled  with  the  authorities  over  every  detail 
of  its  organisation.  "Bless  me,  you  don't  mean 
to  say  that  tall  girl  is  little  Philippa!" 

"She  is  only  sixteen,"  said  Sir  Cecil,  with 
something  of  fatherly  pride  in  his  tone.  "But  she 
is  a  very  fine  girl  indeed — strangers  would  take  her 
for  nineteen  or  twenty." 

Here  Lady  Adelstane  perceived  the  advent  of 
her  husband   and   sister,   and   came   across   the 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  29 

lawn  to  meet  them  as  quickly  as  dignity  and 
embonpoint  combined  would  permit. 

The  twin  sisters  presented  a  remarkable  con- 
trast: Blanche,  tall  and  somewhat  scraggy  in 
figure,  with  a  tanned  and  weather-beaten  appear- 
ance, which  the  rigidity  of  her  motor-coat  and 
peaked  cap  did  nothing  to  soften  or  disguise; 
while  Augusta  preserved  a  certain  youthfulness 
of  contour  in  spite  of  her  forty  years.  Her  dress 
was  eminently  becoming;  her  soft  throat  and 
dimpled  chin  rose  from  cobweb  folds  of  lace  and 
muslin,  and  her  face,  cherubic  in  its  roundness, 
was  shaded  by  the  latest  Paris  creation  in  garden 
hats. 

As  the  sisters  embraced,  their  respective  hus- 
bands could  not  but  observe  their  striking 
dissimilarity. 

"Poor  Blanche!"  reflected  Sir  Cecil;  "she  is 
certainly  plainer  and  more  ungainly  than  ever, 
and  her  voice  becomes  louder  every  year." 

He  was  thankful  that  Providence  had  directed 
his  choice  to  the  younger  of  the  twin  heiresses  of 
the  late  Lord  Mocha. 

"Poor  Augusta!"  thought  Mr.  Rait,  who  had 
hurried  after  his  wife,  having  lingered  but  to 
express  his  feelings  regarding  the  configuration 
of  the  country,  more  freely  than  politeness  per- 
mitted in  the  presence  of  his  host  and  brother-in- 
law.  "I  declare  she  has  put  on  another  couple 
of  stone  at  least  since  we  last  came  down.    And 


30  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

here  is  Blanche  more  active  than  ever,  able  to 
nip  out  and  push  the  little  car  uphill  with  the 
best  of  us." 

"Darling,"  said  Augusta,  whose  affection  always 
increased,  though  but  temporarily,  when  she  had 
not  seen  her  sister  for  a  long  time,  "how  glad  I 
am  you've  come!  It  is  actually  three  years  since 
you  were  here." 

"How  time  flies,  Gussie;  so  it  is.  But  you 
haven't  been  down  here  for  ages  yourself,  have 
you?  Which  accounts  for  your  not  inviting 
me,  I  suppose,"  said  Blanche  in  high  good 
humour. 

"The  doctors  wouldn't  hear  of  my  coming  last 
year.  They  said  I  must  be  braced  or  they  wouldn't 
answer  for  the  consequences,"  said  Augusta 
plaintively.  * '  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  I  always 
get  so  run  down  at  Welwysbere." 

Sir  Cecil  coughed  uneasily. 

"We  are  practically  alone,"  said  Augusta,  hur- 
riedly changing  the  conversation  and  leading 
the  way  to  the  tea-table.  "I  hope  you  won't  be 
bored  to  death." 

"If  I  am,"  said  the  outspoken  Blanche,  "I  can 
easily  nip  off  with  Bob  to  Ilfracombe  or  Land's 
End  for  a  jaunt  and  a  breath  of  sea  air,  and  put 
ourselves  into  a  good  humour.  You've  no  idea 
what  a  resource  we've  found  motoring.  But  I'm 
not  particularly  likely  to  be  bored  with  David 
Moore  about.    He's  a  great  pal  of  mine.    I  held 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  31 

his  leg  at  Bloemfontein  whilst  the  surgeon  sewed 
it  up." 

"Really,  Blanche " 

But  Mrs.  Ralt's  manly  stride  had  already  car- 
ried her  in  advance  of  her  sister  and  hostess  to 
the  cedar  tree,  and  by  the  time  Augusta  arrived, 
breathless,  in  her  wake,  Blanche  had  shaken 
hands  with  the  whole  party  there  assembled 
and  uttered  her  hearty  greetings  in  her  most 
penetrating  tones. 

"Well,  Colonel  Moore,  this  is  luck  indeed!  I 
had  no  idea  I  was  to  meet  you  here.  So  you're  to 
be  at  the  War  Office.  Hope  we  shall  see  something 
of  you,  though  town's  not  much  in  my  line;  but 
you  can  run  up  and  stay  with  us,  eh?  How  are 
you,  Grace?  You  look  flourishing.  Philippa, 
you  were  a  kid  in  short  frocks  when  I  saw  you  last. 
De  do.  Lord  John,  de  do,  Miss  Chilcott."  This 
last  salutation  was  a  very  cool  one;  but  George 
Chilcott  she  greeted  warmly: 

"How  are  the  Shire  horses?  Must  come  over 
to  your  place  again,  if  you  will  let  me.  I 
got  no  end  of  wrinkles  for  Rait  last  time 
I  was  there.  You  never  came  North  as  you 
promised." 

"I  never  go  anywhere,"  said  George  Chilcott, 
smiling. 

"Oh,  George!"  said  his  sister  in  deprecating 
tones. 

Miss  Clara  Chilcott  was  seven-and-forty,  but  so 


32  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

strong  is  the  force  of  habit  that  her  family  still 
regarded  her  as  a  girl. 

She  wore  a  shirt  and  skirt,  big  boots,  and  a 
mushroom  hat  trimmed  with  daisies  and  butter- 
cups. Though  she  resembled  her  brother  George 
not  a  little,  being  large  and  heavy  in  build,  and 
of  a  healthy,  ruddy  complexion,  yet  her  mean- 
ingless light  orbs  lacked  the  kindness  that  shone 
from  his  steady  blue  eyes ;  and  nothing  could  have 
been  more  unlike  the  expression  of  his  firmly 
closed  lips  beneath  his  yellow  moustache  than  Miss 
Clara's  open  mouth,  and  lower  jaw  perpetually 
dropped  in  surprise  or  disapproval. 

' '  I  call  this  such  a  stupid  time  of  the  year  in  the 
country,"  said  Augusta  to  Mr.  Rait,  with  whom 
she  found  it  difficult  to  converse,  though  she 
always  made  a  point  of  addressing  at  least  one 
remark  to  him  at  the  beginning  of  his  visit  and  an- 
other at  the  end.  ' '  No  fruit  or  vegetables ;  the  peas 
and  strawberries  actually  only  in  flower,  though  we 
have  been  eating  them  for  months  in  town;  but 
London  and  Paris  are  the  only  places  where  one 
can  get  fruit  and  vegetables  all  the  year  round." 

•'With  your  range  of  glass  your  gardeners 
ought  to  supply  you  with  plenty  of  forced  straw- 
berries— ours  do,"  said  Miss  Chilcott,  shocked. 
"But  I  suppose  through  your  being  so  much 
away  they  get  slack." 

"I  never  think  forced  strawberries  have  any 
flavour,"  said  Augusta  blandly. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  33 

Miss  Clara  was  proceeding  to  enumerate  the 
names  of  the  best  kinds  of  strawberries  for  forc- 
ing when  Mr.  Rait  interrupted. 

"You're  hke  me,  only  different,"  he  said, 
with  lucid  elegance.  "You  like  London  all  the 
year  round,  and  I  like  the  country  all  the  year 
round.  Chopping  and  changing  is  what  I  hate. 
But  I  suppose  you'll  go  back  for  the  rest  of  the 
season?" 

"Cecil  insisted  on  coming  here  for  Whitsun- 
tide," said  Augusta,  "though  I  never  think  it 
worth  while  to  come  so  far  for  so  short  a  time. 
You  could  have  come  to  us  on  the  river,  you  know. 
My  house  there  is  really  getting  nicer  every  year. 
I'm  making  a  wall  and  water  garden  which  is  a 
perfect  dream.  I  am  sure  you  and  Blanche  would 
have  liked  it  better  than  this  in  many  ways." 

"Augusta,  how  can  you,"  said  Lady  Grace's 
calm  tones,  "without  wishing  to  insult  your 
charming  bungalow — "  She  glanced  expressively 
towards  the  mellow  creeper-clad  walls  of  the 
stately  Abbey,  with  its  rows  of  muUioned  windows 
blazing  in  the  afternoon  sunshine;  at  the  broad 
terraces  whereon  great  stone  urns  on  pedestals 
held  aloft  scarlet  and  rose  geraniums,  and  weather- 
stained  statues  guarded  flights  of  moss-grown 
stone  steps.  The  lawns  were  acres  of  velvet  turf, 
centuries  old,  and  shaded  with  mighty  cedars, 
spreading  oaks,  and  groups  of  tall  elms  sacred  to 
ancient  rookeries;  there  were  silent  pools  bearing 


34  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

rare  lilies  on  their  dark  breasts,  deeply  shadowed 
by  the  tall  yew  hedges  that  walled  them  in; 
there  were  stiff  out-of-date  ribbon  and  heart- 
shaped  borders,  bright  with  variegated  foliage 
in  patterns,  planted  out  for  a  brief  summer  season 
after  the  fashion  beloved  of  former  generations, 
and  which  Sir  Cecil  had  no  idea  of  changing  to 
accord  with  a  modem  taste  he  knew  little  and 
cared  nothing  about. 

To  him  old  customs  were  sacred;  and  Augusta, 
who  had  her  own  way  in  so  many  things,  dared 
not  interfere  with  the  head  gardener  at  the  Abbey, 
who  had  lived  at  Welwysbere  and  had  charge 
of  the  pleasure-grounds  before  Sir  Cecil  was  bom. 

Old  Lady  Sarah's  pet  parterre  had  been  handed 
over  to  Augusta's  tender  mercies,  because  it  was 
the  custom  from  time  immemorial  for  the  lady 
of  the  house  to  exercise  her  whims  upon  this 
enclosure;  and  here  Lady  Adelstane  was  able 
to  indulge  the  modem  craze  for  catalogue  garden- 
ing as  cheerfully  as  she  chose.  Here  she  spent  an 
occasional  half-hour  happily  enough  with  a  bulb 
list  and  a  pencil,  giving  orders  for  the  cutting 
down  and  rooting  up  of  old-established  and  well- 
grown  favourites,  to  make  room  for  wonderful 
new  combinations  of  colour  and  effect;  though 
it  was  very  improbable,  since  she  never  visited 
Welwysbere  in  the  early  spring,  that  she  would 
behold  the  result  of  her  plannings. 

"I  have  heard  your  bungalow  is  too  charming," 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  35 

said  Lord  John,  "and  such  a  convenient  distance 
for  week-ends." 

"Grace  always  jeers  at  my  Cockney  villa,"  said 
Augusta  good-humouredly.  "I  shall  ask  her  no 
more;  you  shall  come  in  her  stead." 

"I  shall  be  delighted." 

"Ask  me  here  instead,  Gussie,"  said  Lady 
Grace,  shrugging  her  shoulders  very  slightly,  and 
reflecting  how  the  good  things  of  this  life  were 
wasted  upon  people  who  lacked  taste  to  enjoy 
them. 

She  lay  back  in  her  easy  chair  and  closed  her 
eyes  for  a  moment,  as  though  the  low  rays  of  the 
sun  were  dazzling  her.  Perhaps  she  knew  that 
a  background  of  scarlet  cushions  was  becoming 
to  her  white  delicate-featured  face  and  the  long, 
graceful  outlines  of  her  rather  thin  but  still  pretty 
figure. 

When  she  opened  her  eyes  it  was  to  perceive 
that  George  Chilcott  was  regarding  her  with  an 
interest  and  kindness  to  which  she  was  not  insen- 
sible. He  had  been  a  favourite  partner  long  ago 
when  he  was  a  young  Guardsman  and  she  a 
debutante.  She  had  then  thought  him  somewhat 
of  a  simpleton,  and  she  observed  that  his  sim- 
plicity had  not  diminished  now  that  he  had  broad- 
ened into  a  typical  forty-year-old  country  squire; 
but  the  honesty  and  friendliness  of  his  regard 
were  the  same.  She  exerted  herself  to  enter 
into  conversation   with   George,   and   their  talk 


36  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

was  full  of  the  inquiries  after  old  friends  and  the 
reminders  of  pleasant  days  gone  by  incidental  to 
past  intimacy. 

"She  wears  well,  though  she  must  be  forty, 
by  gad!"  thought  Lord  John,  adding  half  a  dozen 
years  to  the  poor  lady's  age  with  the  unfeeling 
calm  of  a  man  who  has  grown  tired  of  meeting  an 
acquaintance  too  often  in  unchanging  circum- 
stances. "I  wonder  why  she  never  married.  She 
was  an  uncommonly  handsome  girl  once." 

He  too  had  enjoyed  dancing  and  flirting  with 
Lady  Grace  when  she  first  came  out,  some  sixteen 
seasons  ago,  and  had  even  regretted  for  a  time 
that  her  lack  of  a  fortune  rendered  it  impossible 
for  him  to  fall  in  love  with  her  seriously  and 
marry  her. 

But  Lord  John,  who  had  grown  bald  and  stout 
and  grey  in  the  interval,  and  was,  indeed,  nearly 
twenty  years  her  senior,  now  looked  upon  this 
slender,  graceful  woman  as  completely  pass^e, 
and  thought  of  her,  when  he  thought  of  her  at 
all,  with  good-natured  pity,  as  one  of  London's 
failures. 

"Oh,  must  you  go,  Mr.  Chilcott?"  said  Augusta. 

"Surely  you  won't  take  Colonel  Moore  away 
the  moment  I  arrive?"  shouted  Mrs.  Rait. 

"We've  been  here  for  hours  already,"  said 
George  Chilcott  good-humouredly,  "and  though 
David's  an  idle  man  for  the  moment,  I'm  not, 
you  know.    Come,  Clara." 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  37 

Miss  Chilcott  showed  signs  of  a  willingness  to 
linger,  but  her  hostess  shook  her  hand  with  so 
much  alacrity  that  she  was  obliged  to  follow  the 
Squire's  decided  lead. 

"You  must  come  over  and  see  Lily  soon, 
Philippa,  You've  not  been  to  Bridescombe  for 
ages,  and  she  will  want  to  see  you  in  your  first 
long  frocks,"  said  Miss  Chilcott  with  patronising 
affability  to  Philippa,  whose  fair  brow  grew  scarlet 
with  the  agonised  resentment  peculiar  to  self-con- 
scious youth  under  the  notice  thus  drawn  to  her 
extremely  recent  promotion  from  childhood. 

Lord  John  Trelleck  examined  the  girl  closely 
from  under  the  brim  of  his  straw  hat,  and  observed 
that  she  looked  extraordinarily  handsome  as  she 
stood  before  her  ponderous  middle-aged  relative, 
her  straight  brows  drawn  together  in  a  frown 
over  her  blue  long-lashed  eyes,  and  her  brilliant 
colouring  enhanced  by  the  angry  flush. 

"Got  a  temper,  too,"  he  said  to  himself,  with 
lazy  amusement;  and  he  tried  presently  to  talk 
to  the  little  heiress  of  Welwysbere,  and  to  draw 
her  out  of  her  half-shy,  half-sullen  attitude  of 
watchful  silence  and  embarrassment. 

But  he  did  not  succeed  very  well,  for  at  this 
period  of  Philippa's  existence  men  who  happened 
to  be  possessed  of  bald  heads,  or  wrinkles,  or  grey 
beards,  did  not  count;  they  were  merely  part 
of  the  furniture  of  life,  so  to  speak,  and  it  could 
not  matter  particularly  to  any  one,  and  certainly 


38  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

not  to  her,  what  they  said,  thought,  or  did;  so 
that  she  answered  Lord  John  quite  at  random 
and  took  no  interest  at  all  in  his  skilfully  chosen 
remarks. 

It  was  nothing  to  Philippa  that  he  was  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Yacht  Squadron,  a  friend  of  Royalty, 
and  altogether  one  of  the  most  fashionable  men 
in  London.  Her  attention  was  fixed  upon  Augusta 
and  she  grudged  that  it  should  be  distracted 
even  for  a  moment  from  the  object  of  her  childish 
admiration.  She  had  not  seen  Augusta  for  three 
years — a  long  period  in  a  young  life :  but  a  happy 
compliment  at  meeting  had  aroused  her  enthusi- 
astic gratitude:  it  was  delightful,  at  sixteen,  to  be 
hailed  as  grown  up,  and  assured  to  her  face  that 
she  was  attractive  and  beautiful  to  behold. 

Philippa  had  arrived  at  a  time  of  life  when 
most  maidens,  whether  romantically  or  otherwise 
inclined,  form  attachments,  sometimes  for  the 
strangest  and  most  unlikely  objects.  She  con- 
ceived a  sudden  devotion  for  her  cousin ;  admired 
her  extravagant  gowns,  raved  about  her  dimples, 
and  even  imitated,  for  a  time,  and  to  her  mother's 
horror,  the  peculiar  thick  gabble  in  which  Augusta 
spoke. 

Catherine,  reflecting  upon  the  list  of  Philippa's 
past  idols  (which  included  the  lad  who  blew  the 
bellows  for  the  church  organ,  the  village  school- 
mistress, and  the  miller's  baby) ,  decided  that  this 
new  enthusiasm  pleased  her  the  least  of  all.    She 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  39 

tried,  however,  to  hide  the  natural  mortification 
which  must  be  felt  by  a  parent  who  sees  her 
child  admiring,  and  prepared  to  imitate,  a  model 
felt  to  be  unworthy,  and  consoled  herself  as  best 
she  might  with  the  remembrance  of  her  daughter's 
fickleness. 

Nothing,  however,  had  as  yet  occurred  to 
disillusion  Philippa;  and  thus  she  was  so  happily 
engaged  in  looking  at  and  listening  to  Augusta 
that  she  could  not  spare  any  attention  at  all  for 
Lord  John,  though  she  permitted  herself  an 
occasional  glance  towards  the  tall  bronzed  soldier 
who  was  talking  to  Mrs.  Rait. 

So  this  was  Colonel  Moore,  the  hero  of  Hector 
and  Lily's  dreams;  the  brother  of  their  poor, 
beautiful  young  mother,  who  had  died  ten  years 
ago,  when  Lily  was  bom. 

Philippa  could  not,  after  all,  place  him  upon 
the  retired  list  of  old  fogies,  to  whom  poor  Lord 
John  so  obviously,  in  her  eyes,  belonged. 

David  Moore  was  too  upright,  too  vigorous, 
and  too  good-looking  to  be  treated  with  such 
contumely. 

He  was  very  thin,  and  his  lean  brown  face  was 
deeply  lined;  but  that  was  due  to  the  hardships 
of  war,  she  decided,  and  not  to  old  age ;  for  there 
was  not  a  grey  hair  in  his  black  moutache,  nor  in 
the  crisp,  short  locks  cropped  close  to  his  head,  yet 
obstinately  curling,  nor  in  the  marked  black  brows 
which  met  across  the  bridge  of  his  straight  nose. 


40  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

When  he  laughed,  which  was  rather  often — a 
low,  amused,  sincere  laugh,  which  made  her  feel 
inclined  to  join  without  knowing  why — he  showed 
square,  even,  white  teeth,  and  screwed  up  his 
eyelids  in  what  Philippa  felt  to  be  a  very  engaging 
manner.  When  he  was  not  laughing  she  liked 
his  face  better  still;  and  the  frankness  of  his 
expression  and  the  softness  of  his  handsome 
orange-brown  eyes  pleased  and  attracted  her 
greatly. 

The  thought  that  he  was  a  real  live  hero  also 
sent  a  pleasant  thrill  down  Philippa' s  backbone; 
for  she  was,  after  all,  a  very  simple  country 
maiden  and  her  enthusiasms  were  fresh  and 
wholesome. 

Colonel  Moore  had  no  idea  that  those  down- 
cast eyes  beneath  Philippa's  shady  garden-hat 
were  observing  him,  none  the  less  that  they 
seemed  intent  upon  the  lawn,  or  the  tea-table, 
or  Lady  Adelstane's  lace  dress;  but  he  looked 
not  infrequently  at  her,  for,  indeed,  her  face  was 
sufficiently  attractive  to  arrest  the  attention  of 
a  man  less  susceptible  than  he  to  the  influence  of 
beauty. 

On  a  certain  April  morning  many  years  ago 
David  Moore  had  gone  primrosing  in  the  Brides- 
combe  Woods  with  Philippa's  mother,  when  she 
had  been  hardly  older  than  Philippa  was  now. 
He  tried  to  trace  a  resemblance  between  his 
shadowy  recollections  of  that  gentle  companion 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  41 

of  a  bygone  day  and  the  handsome,   vigorous 
maiden  before  him,  but  he  found  none. 

"So  that  is  Catherine's  child,"  thought  David, 
and  felt  a  little  tenderly  towards  Philippa  for  her 
mother's  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  that  faint, 
isolated  memory  of  that  mother's  youth;  and 
perhaps  also  for  her  own,  since  the  heart  must 
be  hard  indeed  that  is  not  touched  and  softened 
by  that  first  innocent  loveliness  of  a  woman- 
child,  not  yet  awakened  to  the  knowledge  of  her 
own  charm  or  her  own  power. 

George  Chilcott  walked  home  with  his  brother- 
in-law,  leaving  Clara  at  the  parsonage,  where 
she  proposed  that  they  should  join  her  in  calling 
upon  the  vicar's  wife,  who,  she  argued,  could  not 
be  out  at  this  late  hour  of  the  afternoon. 

Since  they  declined  her  invitation  with  much 
warmth  and  determination,  nothing  was  left  her 
but  to  pay  her  visit  alone,  which  she  proceeded 
to  do,  and  no  sooner  were  they  freed  from  her 
presence  than  a  perceptible  sense  of  ease  and 
relief  stole  over  both  men. 

At  the  lych-gate  of  the  churchyard  George 
hesitated,  and  said  to  his  companion,  "I  generally 
go  the  short  cut  through  this  place  and  the  fields 
when  I'm  alone,"  and  David  nodded  without  a 
word. 

He  had  been  there  already  since  his  arrival  at 
Bridescombe. 


42  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

The  grass  was  very  long,  and  the  stone  flags 
of  the  old  lychway  through  the  churchyard  much 
overgrown.  George  walked  in  front,  and  David 
followed,  and  both  men  stopped  before  a  cleared 
space,  surrounded  by  a  railing,  wherein  a  plain 
sarcophagus  stood,  half  buried  in  the  blossom  of 
carefully  tended  summer  flowers. 

The  inscription  to  "Delia,  beloved  wife  of 
George  Chilcott,"  was  discernible,  and  the  date 
of  a  Christmas  ten  years  past. 

Close  by  there  stood  a  plainer  stone,  whereon 
the  name  of  George's  father.  Admiral  Hector 
Chilcott,  and  his  seventy-seven  years  of  honoured, 
blameless  life  were  recorded;  and  above  both 
monuments  towered  the  broken  column  which 
marked  the  tomb  of  Sir  Philip  Adelstane,  called 
from  a  full  and  useful  life  in  the  prime  of  manhood ; 
but  George  and  David  saw  only  that  sacred 
place  where  youth  and  love  and  beauty  lay  low 
in  Delia's  grave. 

Neither  man  spoke,  nor  did  either  so  much  as 
look  at  the  other;  but  when  George  walked  on, 
and  David  followed,  both  knew  that  that  silent 
pilgrimage  expressed  a  bond  of  mutual  sorrow 
and  brotherhood  which  could  only  have  been 
weakened  in  intensity  by  spoken  words. 


CHAPTER  III 

"I  MUST  apologise  for  being  obliged  to  receive 
you  in  my  bedroom,  my  dear  Catherine,"  said  old 
Lady  Sarah,  "but  I  gathered  from  your  note  that 
you  wanted  to  talk  to  me  alone,  and  this  is  the 
only  spot  in  the  house  where  we  may  be  sure 
of  a  comfortable  chat  without  interruption  from 
Augusta.  When  I  arrive  (and  she  has  the  bad 
taste,  if  you  will  believe  me,  to  give  me  a  different 
room  in  my  old  home  every  time  I  come)  my 
first  care,  like  the  governor  of  a  besieged  castle, 
is  to  survey  my  fortifications,  and  decide  how 
best  to  strengthen  them.  You  will  perceive  I 
have  had  the  fourposter  moved  in  front  of  the 
main  entrance,  so  that  even  Augusta  would  find 
it  difficult  to  burst  in  upon  me  that  way." 

"She  woiild  indeed,"  said  Catherine,  observing 
the  carven  pillars  of  the  seventeenth-century 
couch. 

"And  Tailer  sits  on  guard  in  the  dressing-room, 
with  my  sweet  little  Mumbo  Jumbo,  who  has 
orders  to  bite  every  intruder  except  you,  my  love." 

"You  are  very  kind  to  make  me  the  exception," 
said  Catherine,  smiling. 

43 


44  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

She  had  intended  to  consult  Lady  Sarah,  and 
pondered  how  best  she  could  approach  the  subject 
of  Philippa;  but  Lady  Sarah  had  a  way  of  fore- 
stalling confidences  which  was  almost  disconcert- 
ing in  its  suddenness. 

"Well,  my  love,  so  here  is  Philippa  a  woman, 
and  you  in  difficulties,  as  I  always  said  you  would 
be,  when  you  chose  to  bring  up  the  sole  hope  of 
the  Adelstanes  in  the  back  kitchen  of  a  labourer's 
cottage." 

"  If  I  had  but  known  she  was  to  be  the  sole  hope 
of  the  Adelstanes,"  said  Catherine,  rather  sadly, 
"  I  do  not  think  I  would  have  brought  her  up  here 
at  all." 

"You  might  have  known,  my  love,  for  I  always 
told  you  Augusta  would  never  give  Cecil  an 
heir.  She  has  never  been  known  to  do  anything 
useful  in  her  life  that  I  am  aware  of.  And  so 
Philippa  is  discontented  and  rebellious,  and  you 
can  do  nothing  with  her  and  are  at  your  wits' 
end." 

"  It  is  not  so  bad  as  that,  I  hope,"  said  Catherine, 
colouring. 

"Augusta  makes  it  out  quite  as  bad  as  that," 
said  Lady  Sarah,  rather  maliciously. 

"Augusta  can  know  nothing — nothing,"  cried 
Catherine  warmly,  "of  anything  between  my 
Phil  and  me.  Why,  she  has  hardly  been  here 
since  Philippa  was  twelve  years  old.  I  have  not 
breathed  a  word   to  her,    and  I  am  sure  Phil 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  45 

wouldn't.  She  may  have  her  faults,  but  dis- 
loyalty is  not  one  of  them." 

"I  am  never  sure  of  anything  except  that 
where  Augusta  is  concerned  mischief  will  hatch 
itself,"  said  Lady  Sarah  cheerfully.  "I  can  assure 
you  that  when  I  was  foolish  enough  to  invite  her 
to  my  nutshell  in  Curzon  Street,  because  her  own 
house  was  unavailable  for  some  cause  or  other, 
she  spent  at  least  six  hours  a  day  during  her 
visit  scribbling  every  detail  of  my  household 
concerns  and  my  disreputable  doings  and  sayings 
to  all  her  dearest  friends.  Bless  me,  how  quickly 
I  turned  my  spare  room  into  a  lumber  closet  after  I 
found  her  out.  I  shall  like  to  see  her  face,  my 
love,  when  I  tell  her  that  I  have  inquired  into 
your  differences  with  Philippa,  of  which  she  was 
kind  enough  to  inform  me,  and  that  I  find  there 
is  not  a  word  of  truth  in  the  report  from  begin- 
ning to  end." 

"But  there  is  a  word  of  truth  in  it,"  said  Cath- 
erine, her  cheeks  flushed  and  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears;  she  drew  her  low  chair  closer  to  Lady 
Sarah's  fauteuil. 

"Did  I  not  tell  you  Augusta  was  a  dangerous 
friend?"  said  Lady  Sarah  nodding,  "It  is  the 
word  of  truth  that  makes  her  dangerous.  There 
is  no  detail  of  fact  which  she  cannot  interpret  to 
your  disadvantage  if  she  wishes  to  do  so;  and 
yet,  do  you  know,  Catherine,  astonishing  as  it 
seems,  I  don't  believe  she  means  it." 


46  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"I  am  quite  sure  she  does  not,"  said  Catherine. 
"I  blame  myself  often  for  being  hard  upon  her  in 
my  thoughts,  though  I  am  not  so " 

"Prejudiced?"  suggested  Lady  Sarah. 

"Well,  perhaps,  not  so  prejudiced  as  you  are," 
said  Catherine,  smiling  apologetically. 

"Augusta  has  a  kind  of  surface  good  nature 
which  imposes  upon — people  in  general,"  said 
Lady  Sarah,  nodding  again. 

"Philippa  has  taken  one  of  her  violent  fancies 
for  Augusta,"  said  Catherine,  with  a  rather 
melancholy  laugh.  "I  dare  say  it  will  not  last. 
She  is  always  wild  about  some  one  now.  I  don't 
know  what  to  make  of  it." 

"Philippa  is  exactly  like  I  was  at  her  age,  a 
headstrong  young  woman,  uncommonly  fond  of 
her  own  way,  and  you  have  spoilt  her  excessively, 
my  love.  Dear  me,  what  battles  I  had  with  my 
poor  mother;  but  I  never  got  the  better  of  her, 
I  must  own.  She  was  a  very  determined  person, 
and  not  at  all  like  you,  my  sweet  Catherine. 
As  for  Philippa,  she  will  get  over  all  these  pre- 
liminary adorations  the  first  time  she  falls  in  love. 
Pray  Heaven  it  may  be  the  right  man.  When  I 
fell  in  love  it  was  head  over  ears,  and  I  should 
have  married  poor  Philip  whether  he  liked  it  or 
not,  I  can  assure  you.  Indeed,  I  have  never  been 
so  very  certain  that  he  did  like  it.  However, 
Philippa  is  not  likely  to  marry  any  one  against 
his  will,  for  she  is  not  so  clever  as  I  was,  my  dear. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  47 

and  is  in  fact  a  thorough  Adelstane  at  heart,  in 
spite  of  her  resemblance  to  her  poor  old  grand- 
dame.  It  is  certain  that  the  Adelstane  ice  will 
gradually  freeze  the  warm  blood  of  the  Walderseas, 
which  flows  in  her  veins  and  mine.  And  no  one 
has  ever  accused  an  Adelstane  of  cleverness  so 
far  as  I  am  aware.  However,  they  are  good- 
looking  and  remarkably  healthy;  you  can't 
have  everything,"  said  Lady  Sarah,  indulgently. 

"Cecil  is  very  wise  in  his  way.  I  know  no  one 
whose  judgment  I  rely  on  more,"  said  Catherine, 
loyally. 

"Just  so,  and  clever  people  are  hardly  ever 
wise.  That  is  why  I  am  thankful  that  my  descend- 
ants turned  out  dull.  Though  it  is  very  odd  that 
they  should,"  said  Lady  Sarah,  with  a  frisky 
laugh.  "Far  better  for  me  than  if  I  had  had  the 
misfortune  to  bring  forth  a  genius,  who  would 
probably  have  revenged  himself  for  my  maternal 
devotion  by  revealing  eventually  to  the  world  his 
full  impressions  of  the  mistakes  I  made  in  his 
education,  with  comments  upon  all  my  little 
weaknesses  thrown  in." 

"Oh,  Lady  Sarah!" 

"Well,  my  love,  I  am  supposing  my  genius 
to  be  a  writer;  and  what  is  an  author,  after  all, 
but  an  indiscreet  person  who  can't  keep  his 
thoughts  to  himself?  If  he  were  any  other  kind 
of  genius  it  would  be  even  worse,  for  then  his 
friends  would  certainly  set  to  work  to  write  his 


48  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

biography,  and  scratch  up  or  invent  the  most 
unpleasant  details  to  make  it  as  spicy  as  possible. 
But,  however,  as  I  was  saying,  my  sons  were 
anything  but  geniuses.  They  had  the  good  luck 
to  be  as  wise  as  they  were  dull,  which  is  saying  a 
great  deal.  The  wise  man,  you  see,  my  love,  does 
not  drink  nor  gamble,  nor  live  beyond  his  income, 
nor  run  away  with  his  neighbour's  wife;  and  the 
clever  man  is  by  no  means  exempt  from  these 
possibilities.  I  was  more  clever  than  wise,  so  I  got 
into  not  a  few  scrapes  in  my  day.  However,  if 
my  wits  led  me  into  them,  they  always  got  me  out 
of  them.  I  dare  say  Augusta  has  told  you  the 
most  shocking  histories,  my  love." 

"Do  you  think  I  would  listen  if  she  did?" 

"Poor  Cecil  has  had  to  listen,  willy-nilly.  He 
has  never  had  the  same  respect  for  me  since  he 
married.  Nor  for  any  one  else,  so  far  as  that  goes. 
She  has  stripped  away  every  illusion  he  may 
ever  have  cherished  regarding  the  members  of 
his  own  family,  or  of  hers,  long  since.  But  to 
return  to  our  muttons,  or  in  this  case  our  little 
ewe  lamb,  without  accusing  her  of  dulness" — 
Lady  Sarah's  bright  eyes  twinkled — "though  she 
is  a  trifle  spoilt,  she  has  not  the  kind  of  cleverness, 
my  love,  which  leads  a  girl  into  mischief,  and  so 
you  can  be  quite  easy  about  her." 

This  assurance  neither  gratified  nor  convinced 
Philippa's  mother. 

"And  therefore,"  said  Lady  Sarah,  very  coolly, 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  49 

"I  am  much  inclined,  Catherine,  to  advise  you  to 
give  the  child  her  way.  Let  her  accept  this  invita- 
tion, and  go  up  to  town  with  Augusta  for  a  few 
weeks." 

"With  Augusta!  You  advise  me  to  confide 
my  child  to  her,  after " 

"After  all  the  abuse  I  have  been  showering 
upon  her,  you  would  like  to  say?  But,  my  dear 
Catherine,  as  you  remarked  just  now,  I  am  per- 
haps prejudiced  against  Cecil's  wife,"  said  Lady 
Sarah,  adroitly. 

"One  may  be  unprejudiced,  and  yet  unable  to 
respect  Augusta's  methods,"  said  Catherine,  almost 
angrily,  "and  my  Philippa — ^who  is  as  open  as  the 
day — how  could  she " 

"But  that  is  one  of  my  principal  reasons,  my 
love.  Mothers  are  so  very  short-sighted.  If  you 
want  our  beloved  Philippa  to  find  out  your  merits, 
let  her  toddle  off  under  Augusta's  care.  An  ounce 
of  experience  is  worth  a  pound  of  theory.  It  will 
do  her  no  harm  to  be  let  out  of  leading  strings, 
for,  as  I  tell  you,  she  is  an  Adelstane  at  heart, 
and  she  will  bore  Augusta  to  death  in  a  week. 
A  girl  of  that  age,  full  of  high-flown  illusions, 
embarrasses  herself  and  everybody  else,"  said 
Lady  Sarah,  chuckling.  "She  will  be  reUgu^e  to 
the  back  drawing-room  in  a  day  or  two,  if  I'm 
not  mistaken,  and  be  glad  enough  to  come  home, 
and  to  make  her  dibut  next  year,  under  your 
wing,  with  my  assistance;   though  Augusta  very 

4 


50  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

kindly  hints  to  me  that  I  am  becoming  a  trifle 
superannuated. ' ' 

"I  had  always  hoped  you  would  help  me;  but 
must  it  be  next  year?"  said  Catherine,  dismally. 
' '  She  is  only  sixteen." 

"When  I  was  her  age,"  said  Lady  Sarah,  rather 
contemptuously,  "I  had  refused  an  excellent  offer 
of  marriage  already,  and  though  my  godmother 
left  me  a  fortune  I  was  no  such  heiress  as  Philippa 
will  be.  I  fell  in  love  only  six  months  after  with 
Philip  Adelstane  and  married  him  on  the  spot. 
My  grandmother.  Lady  Jane  Waldersea,  was 
married  at  fifteen,  had  twelve  children,  and  lived 
to  be  a  hundred  years  old.  I  do  not  agree  at  all 
with  these  namby-pamby  modem  notions  of  pro- 
longing a  girl's  childhood  indefinitely.  Philippa 
is  none  of  your  nervous  anasmic  blue-stockings, 
grown  round-shouldered  and  short-sighted  with 
poring  over  her  lessons." 

"  No ,  indeed , ' '  said  Catherine .  '  *  My  only  fear  is 
that  I  have  thought,  if  anything,  too  much  of  her 
health  and  too  little  of  her  education.  But  she 
dislikes  books,  has  no  taste  for  drawing,  and  no 
ear  for  music.    What  was  I  to  do?" 

"Why  must  every  female  creature  be  bound  to 
thump  a  pianoforte?  In  my  opinion,  if  women 
want  to  get  on  in  life  the  less  they  learn  the 
better.  A  learned  woman  is  like  Cain,  every  man's 
hand  is  against  her,"  said  Lady  Sarah,  chuckling. 
"Philippa  can  read  and  write,  and  speak  English 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  51 

like  a  lady,  and  French  like  an  Englishwoman. 
She  can  play  games  and  ride  straight  to  hounds, 
and  has  a  good  disposition.  She  is  a  fine  strapping, 
healthy  creature,  formed  by  nature  to  be  the 
mother  of  fine,  healthy,  beautiful  children.  What 
more  do  you  want?  What  more  need  any  man 
ask  for,  I  should  like  to  know?  She  ought  to  come 
out  next  year  and  marry  in  her  first  season,  as  I  did. 
Pray,  am  I  one  penny  the  worse  for  it?  And  if  this 
preliminary  canter  makes  her  less  farouche  or,  if 
you  will  excuse  me,  my  sweet  Catherine,  knocks 
a  little  of  the  family  priggishness  out  of  her,  we 
shall  have  every  reason  to  be  thankful  to  Augusta." 

"And  I  said  I  would  be  guided  by  you,"  said 
Catherine  despairingly.  "Oh,  Lady  Sarah,  do — 
do  be  serious.  Think  that  I  have  only  Philippa 
in  the  world." 

"And  how  much  longer  do  you  expect  to  keep 
her  all  to  yourself,  pray?" 

"At  least  till  she  marries,  and  I  need  not  lose 
her  altogether  then." 

"To  be  sure.  Yes,  yes.  I  can  see  the  son-in-law 
you  have  in  your  mind's  eye,"  said  Lady  Sarah 
derisively.  "Not  too  old,  and  not  too  young. 
A  serious,  careful  person  to  whom  you  can  confide 
your  opinion  of  the  careful  treatment  her  health 
and  disposition  require,  and  who  can  be  trusted 
to  look  after  her  like  any  old  woman,  and  see  that 
she  does  not  get  her  feet  wet  in  summer,  or  leave 
off  her  warm  vests  in  winter.    Mothers  are  perfect 


52  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

fools,  my  dear  Catherine.  Philippa  will  live  her 
own  life,  and  buy  her  own  experience  as  dearly 
as  possible,  and  her  husband  will  do  just  what 
she  chooses,  and  will  never  discuss  her  with  any 
one,  least  of  all  with  her  mamma.  Bless  me, 
my  love,  how  warm  it  is!  I  believe  I  shall  have 
to  go  downstairs  and  sit  under  the  trees  on  the 
lawn.  Augusta  purposely  chose  me  a  room  with  a 
western  aspect  (a  thing  I  can't  bear)  to  force  me 
out  of  it  every  afternoon." 

Catherine  was  obliged  to  accept  this  somewhat 
decisive  hint  that  her  interview  with  Lady  Sarah 
was  at  an  end.  She  had  wished  for  advice  and 
had  received  it,  and  found  it  as  unpalatable  as 
advice  must  always  be  when  it  clashes  with  the 
seeker's  own  inclinations. 

But  there  was  no  one  else  to  whom  she  felt 
inclined  to  turn  for  counsel.  George  Chilcott,  it  is 
true,  managed  her  business  affairs,  and  gave 
her  sage  and  excellent  directions  concerning 
them,  but  she  could  never  speak  to  him  from  her 
heart.  He  was  but  a  kind,  honest  dullard,  whose 
converse  was  strictly  limited  to  what  he  would 
have  termed  the  practical  realities  of  existence. 
Of  the  life  of  the  spirit,  the  thoughts  and  ideas 
which  survive  through  the  ages  whilst  men  and 
matter  alike  perish,  he  knew  and  cared  nothing 
•at  all.  The  things  he  could  see  were  real  to  him, 
the  rest  did  not  exist.     He  went  to  church  regu- 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  63 

larly,  and  tried  to  keep  his  reverent  attention 
fixed  on  words  which  bored  him  very  much, 
though  he  would  have  died  sooner  than  admit 
this  even  to  himself;  and  he  did  his  duty  to  the 
best  of  his  ability  as  a  brave,  clean,  honest  man, 
imbued  with  the  best  English  public  school  and 
army  traditions.  Catherine  found  him  more 
practical  and  better  informed  on  gardening 
and  farming  subjects  than  Sir  Cecil,  but  there 
her  companionship  with  him  ended.  There  was 
no  one — there  had  never  been  any  one — to  whom 
she  had  spoken  her  inmost  thoughts.  Not  Philippa 
— ^whom  she  loved  best  in  the  world,  for  whom 
she  would  have  laid  down  her  life  without  a  sigh. 
In  the  midst  of  her  idolatry  for  her  only  child, 
Catherine  had  wistfully  recognised  the  absence 
of  the  higher  and  finer  perceptions  in  Philippa. 
Sometimes  she  tried  to  persuade  herself  that  these 
would  develop  with  advancing  age ;  but  memories 
of  her  own  childhood  secretly  nullified  the  hope. 

It  needed  not  the  satirical  comments  of  Lady 
Sarah  to  show  her  that  her  child  was  modelled 
upon  the  Adelstane  type — ^when  Sir  Cecil,  em- 
bodiment of  all  that  was  best  in  the  race,  was 
constantly  before  her  eyes.  Handsome  and  dis- 
tinguished in  feature,  tall  and  dignified  in  person, 
with  a  manner  perfectly  well  bred,  courteous,  and 
reserved — he  had  grown  to  resemble  exactly,  in 
the  eyes  of  the  world,  his  late  uncle,  Sir  Philip. 

But    Lady    Sarah    never    allowed    this,    and 


54  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

Catherine  was  passionately  grateful  to  her  for 
her  obstinacy  in  the  matter. 

"  So  is  a  clay  model  like  a  marble  statue.  Philip 
was  made  of  finer  stuff,"  said  the  old  lady. 

Catherine  looked  back  through  the  mist  of 
years  to  the  noble  figure  which  had  dominated  the 
imagination  of  her  girlhood,  and  with  all  her 
might  clung  to  her  early  ideal,  and  agreed  with 
Lady  Sarah,  conquering  that  sad  clearness  of 
vision  which  creeps  upon  middle-age  and  destroys 
so  many  loved  illusions. 

When  Philippa  was  bom,  Catherine  looked  no 
less  eagerly  into  the  future,  and  beheld  already 
in  her  dreams  the  companion  into  which  that 
human  chrysalis  would  develop.  She  fancied 
herself  singing  songs  and  telling  stories  to  an 
eager  childish  listener,  and  felt  already  little  arms 
about  her  neck,  and  saw  beautiful  eyes  looking 
intelligently  into  hers  with  answering  fondness 
and  understanding.  But  she  did  not  realise  that 
the  little  being  of  whom  she  thought  was  the 
ghost  of  her  own  childhood,  and  not  the  sub- 
stantial living  Philippa  who  lay  sleeping  in  her 
cot;  in  whom  the  germs  of  the  Adelstane  char- 
acter were  already  thriving  healthily,  and  who 
woiild  be  neither  a  dreamer  nor  a  sentimentalist, 
as  Catherine  had  been,  nor  endowed  with  a  spark 
of  her  mother's  gentle  humour. 

Catherine,  confounding  imagination  with  reality, 
had  thus  let  Philippa  too  soon  into  the  temple 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  56 

of  her  early  and  sacred  memories.  She  had  since 
had  many  a  pained  vision  of  the  child  flitting 
carelessly  through  that  holy  place,  overthrowing 
idols,  peering  into  dim  recesses,  and  setting 
the  door  open  for  the  sunlight  of  common  sense 
to  stream  in  and  extinguish  the  shadowy  twilight 
of  fancy.  Philippa  dispersed  all  Catherine's 
tender  expectations  with  light-hearted  uncon- 
sciousness, being  naturally  altogether  unaware  of 
that  imaginary  self  of  hers — that  little  dream- 
child  with  serious  face  and  pathetic  eyes,  who 
never  was  and  never  could  be  Philippa  Adelstane. 

Old  Miss  Dulcinea  was  a  kind  creature,  gentle 
if  rather  foolish  of  disposition,  but  Catherine  had 
long  since  discovered  that  the  confidences  of  her 
friends  formed  the  staple  theme  of  Miss  Dulcinea's 
conversation  with  any  one  who  cared  to  listen; 
nor  did  they  lose  in  the  telling,  for  the  kind  old 
lady's  loving  embroideries  of  speech  decorated, 
so  to  speak,  the  solid  hours  of  many  a  tete-h-tHe 
in  shabby  old  drawing-rooms  or  stuffy  cottage 
parlours,  brightening  dull  lives,  and  not,  perhaps, 
doing  much  harm  to  any  one. 

The  knowledge  of  Miss  Chilcott's  weakness 
w^eighed  upon  Catherine,  however,  with  a  heavi- 
ness that  might  appear  disproportionate  save  to 
those  who  have  endured  a  similar  minor  trial  of 
life.  She  was  aware  that,  through  this  incessant 
leakage  in  her  household,  her  most  intimate 
concerns    and    smallest    doings    must   needs    be 


56  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

babbled  about  an  entire  neighbourhood;  but 
reproaches,  though  they  wounded  poor  Miss 
Dulcinea's  gentle  heart,  could  not  cure  her;  and 
Catherine  could  only  retire  into  herself,  guard 
her  conversation,  and  be  careful  never  to  comment 
upon  Philippa's  shortcomings  nor  reprove  her  in 
Miss  Dulcinea's  presence;  hiding  the  disappoint- 
ment and  anxiety  which  her  child  almost  daily 
caused  her  as  best  she  could.  She  learnt  to  com- 
mune with  her  own  heart  indeed,  but  to  be  still — 
how  infinitely  more  difficult  was  that!  To  wait 
patiently  for  developments — to  trust  God  and 
live  in  the  present,  instead  of  fretting  over  the 
possible  troubles  of  an  unknown  future. 


CHAPTER  IV 

In  these  early  days  of  a  backward  June,  Nature 
had  withheld  the  fulfilment  of  her  yearly  promise, 
only  to  pour  it  out  the  more  lavishly  at  last. 

The  homestead  at  Shepherd's  Rest  was  embow- 
ered in  blossom. 

The  scented  honeysuckle  hung  trails  of  yellow 
trumpets  over  the  west  comer  of  the  porch;  the 
east  was  heavily  curtained  by  the  Montana 
clematis,  studded  with  white  stars. 

The  open  window  of  Catherine's  bedroom  was 
framed  with  early  roses — the  faint  coppery  hue  of 
the  Id^al  soaring  ever  upward  as  though  seeking 
to  bear  its  burden  of  flower  as  near  heaven  as 
possible;  and  the  clusters  of  the  little  innocent- 
faced  Banksia,  content  to  clothe  itself  in  beauty 
from  stem  to  point. 

A  sturdy  wistaria  embraced  the  north  wall, 
flung  its  purple  bunches  over  the  roof,  and 
dangled  them  around  the  eaves;  no  ruthless 
gardener  was  here  permitted  to  prune  its  natural 
luxuriance  or  lop  its  graceful  growth. 

On  the  edge  of  the  little  wood  which  sheltered 
the  garden  from  the  east,  the  laburnum  swimg 

57 


58  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

golden  drops  in  the  light  summer  wind  over  the 
tall  foxgloves;  above  the  laburnum  rose  the 
dark  fir-trees,  but  spring  had  tipped  the  myriad 
points  of  their  sombre  foliage  with  delicate  new 
pale  green. 

In  the  open  meadows  and  orchard  lands  which 
lay  to  the  west  the  hedges  were  white  with  may, 
and  the  air  was  filled  with  the  fragrance  of 
it;  the  red  Devon  cattle,  motionless  and  drowsy, 
dropped  their  heads  among  the  seeding  grasses; 
the  buttercups  glowed  in  the  sunshine,  and  the 
wild  hyacinths  made  the  shadows  yet  more  purple 
beneath  the  branching  apple-trees. 

Gaily  the  tulips  and  the  painted  pansies  bloomed 
in  the  little  garden,  where  the  turquoise  blue  of  a 
cloudless  sky  was  reflected  in  whole  forests  of 
forget-me-not,  springing  round  the  stems  of  the 
standard  rose  trees. 

The  oak  parlour  of  the  cottage,  cool,  rose- 
scented,  was  shaded  by  outside  blinds  from  the 
blinding  sunshine. 

Here  the  hands  of  David  and  Catherine  met 
and  clasped ;  they  looked  curiously  at  each  other 
across  the  experience  of  half  a  lifetime. 

The  first  thought  of  each  was  that  the  other  had 
changed  very  greatly.  Catherine  perceived  that 
the  merry  careless  boy  had  developed  into  a 
strong  and  splendid  manhood. 

Colonel  Moore  was  obviously  fitted  by  nature 
to  be  a  leader  of  men;  tall  and  powerful  of  build, 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  59 

alert  and  steady  of  glance,  with  the  clear  eyes  that 
bore  witness  to  a  temperate  life,  as  his  lean  mus- 
cular figure  argued  an  active  one. 

"He  is  quick,  and  generous  and  sympathetic  as 
Delia,"  thought  Catherine,  and  her  heart  beat 
pleasantly  with  quickened  interest. 

David  saw  only  the  soft  and  gentle  face  of  a 
woman  whose  youth  was  past;  brown  hair  with 
silver  threads  in  it,  parted  above  a  low,  broad 
brow;  a  sweet  mouth  rather  humorous,  and 
hazel  eyes  rather  wistful.  The  quiet,  grey-clad 
figure  of  a  woman  whose  best  days  of  love  and 
life  had  departed — ^whilst  his  were  yet  to  come; 
the  dearest  friend  of  his  dead  sister's  bright 
youth;  the  widow  of  Sir  Philip  Adelstane — a 
personage  he  had  once  regarded  with  awe — and 
the  mother  of  Philippa. 

But,  though  their  thoughts  were  many,  their 
greetings  were  commonplace. 

"So  we  meet  again." 

"How  good  of  you  to  come  so  soon.** 

"I  haven't  seen  you,  Catherine,  since  you  were — 
well — about  the  age  your  pretty  daughter  is  now." 

"No,"  said  Catherine  gently.  "I  was  always 
sorry  you  did  not  come  down  here  when  you 
were  last  in  England." 

"I  spent  my  leave  in  London  with — Delia. 
She  was  never  fond  of  the  country." 

"No,  never.  But  she  wished  George  to  live 
here." 


60  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"Because  she  knew  his  heart  was  in  his  home. 
It  was  a  pity  George  gave  up  the  service  when 
she  died;  but  I  suppose  his  duty  lay  here." 

"Oh,  David,  it  is  the  life  he  is  best  fitted  for," 
said  Catherine.  "When  they  used  to  come  down 
here  for  a  few  days  from  town,  it  was  pitiful  to  see 
how  his  heart  was  set  on  the  place;  he  used  to 
ramp  and  rage  like  an  angry  lion,  Delia  told  me, 
over  his  mother's  mismanagement.  And  yet  he 
wouldn't  hear  of  Delia's  giving  up  London  and 
coming  here  altogether." 

"No,  no,  he  couldn't  go  back  on  his  word  like 
that,"  said  David.  "Delia  had  always  stipu- 
lated for  London;  what  could  she  have  done 
down  here?  And,  after  all,  they  were  very  happy 
while  it  lasted — ^happier  than  most  couples.  The 
pity  of  it  is  that  it  should  have  lasted  so  short  a 
time.    Hardly  seven  years." 

Catherine  thought  of  her  own  happiness,  which 
had  lasted  a  shorter  time  yet,  and  sighed. 

"Are  you  down  there  much?"  said  David 
abruptly. 

He  moved  restlessly  about  the  little  oak-pan- 
elled room,  taking  two  chairs  from  their  proper 
places  and  resting  in  neither.  His  dark  head 
almost  touched  the  heavy  centre  beam  which 
crossed  the  parlour. 

"Not  very  much,"  said  Catherine.  Then,  as 
though  excusing  herself:  "It  is  not  far  as  the 
crow  flies,  but  it's  a  steep  climb,  and  I  am  always 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  61 

busy.  Phil  runs  up  and  down  a  good  deal,  and 
little  Lily  finds  her  way  up  here  when  she  is 
allowed,  which,  to  be  sure,  is  not  very  often." 

"That's  what  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you  about. 
I  don't  think  old  Mrs.  Chilcott's  influence  is  good 
for  little  Lily,"  said  David,  and  he  settled  himself 
at  last,  with  an  air  of  relief,  in  an  arm-chair,  and 
looked  expectantly  at  Catherine.  There  was  an 
eager  certainty  of  sympathy  in  his  sunshiny, 
orange-brown  eyes  that  reminded  her  sadly, 
yet  pleasurably,  of  her  lost  beloved  friend;  so 
that  she  could  not  feel  him  to  be  a  stranger,  and 
she  prepared  herself  unconsciously  to  give  him 
all  the  sympathy  he  needed. 

A  whole-hearted,  spontaneous  unreserve  with 
those  whom  she  loved  or  trusted,  or  with  whom 
she  found  herself  in  sympathy,  had  been  one  of 
Delia's  most  charming  characteristics.  The  in- 
stinctive choice  of  a  confidante  counts  for  much 
with  such  natures,  and  Delia  had  not  often  been 
betrayed;  David  perhaps  never,  though  his  was 
the  simpler  nature,  the  greater  heart,  of  the  two. 

"She  wanted  George  to  come  back,  because 
she  knew  he  would  find  his  only  consolation 
when  she  was  gone  in  Bridescombe,"  he  said. 
"But  she  hadn't  time  to  think  of  everything " 

"Ah,  she  was  so  quick — so  quick  of  thought; 
she  had  time,"  Catherine  just  breathed  the  words, 
with  a  little  shake  of  her  head. 

"You  wrote  to  me — it  was  very  good  of  you — 


62  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

and  told  me  all  poor  old  George  couldn't  say," 
he  responded  instantly,  leaning  forward.  "But 
tell  me  now  again,  by  word  of  mouth;  one  can 
say  so  much  more  than  in  a  letter." 

"There  were  but  three  days  after  Lily  was 
bom,"  said  Catherine.  "But  when  she  knew 
she  had  to  go — she  was  as  brave  as " 

"As  Delia  would  be,"  he  said  proudly,  with  the 
unshed  tears  glittering  in  the  brown  eyes  fixed  on 
Catherine's  moved  face. 

"In  her  quick  way  she  made  up  her  mind  that 
little  Lily  would  be  herself  over  again,  and  had 
no  fears  for  leaving  her;  she  thought  more  of 
Hector,  whom  she  worshipped.  'My  boy  will 
be  at  school,'  she  said,  'and  his  Granny  won't 
have  much  of  a  chance  to  bully  him,  and  he's  not 
the  sort  to  care  if  she  did.  But  she  won't,  he's 
too  like  George.  And  my  daughter  * — I  can  hear 
her  laugh  now — 'will  be  able  to  hold  her  own. 
George  could  never  bear  to  live  in  London  alone, 
and  the  country  will  be  better  for  the  children. 
They  must  go  back.'  She  thought,  too,  that  her 
death  and  having  her  grandchildren  all  to  herself 
would  soften  old  Mrs.  Chilcott." 

"Well,  it  hasn't,"  said  David  shortly.  "And 
the  other  woman,  Clara,  is  intolerable.  Between 
them  they  make  the  child's  life  a  burden  to  her." 

"Is  it  so  bad  as  that?"  said  Catherine,  with 
startled  eyes.     "Oh,  surely  no." 

"Yes,  it  is  as  bad  as  that." 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  63 

"And  George  hasn't  fotind  it  out?" 

David's  glance  rested  on  her  with  an  expres- 
sion of  mingled  scorn,  affection,  and  amusement. 
"George!"  he  said. 

"I  know  she  is  a  quiet  little  thing,"  said  Cath- 
erine humbly,  "but  many  children  are  quiet.  I 
have  always  thought  little  Lily  just  the  child — I 
should  have  liked.  She  follows  me  about  with 
her  great  black  eyes  questioning;  always  gentle 
and  serious." 

"I  should  like  to  take  her  away,"  said  David, 
half  angrily.  "She  has  no  business  to  be  serious 
at  ten  years  old." 

"Oh,  David,"  said  Catherine,  almost  tearfully, 
"is  it  possible  that  you  in  a  few  days  have  found 
out  that  Delia's  little  girl  is  unhappy;  and  that 
I,  a  woman  and  a  mother  too,  have  been  so 
selfish,  so  thoughtless  as  not  to  find  it  out?" 

"Oh,  well,  it  is  natural  you  should  be  absorbed 
in  your  own  child,"  he  said  apologetically.  "And 
besides,  you  haven't  stayed  in  the  house  with 
her.    I  have,  even  if  only  for  a  few  days." 

"I  will  confess  the  truth,"  said  Catherine,  and 
her  lip  trembled.  "1  do  avoid  going  to  Brides- 
combe.  I — I — have  said  nothing  about  it  to  any- 
one. 

"Much  better  speak  out,"  said  David,  uncere- 
moniously. 

"But  each  time  I  go  there  I  vow  to  myself  it 
shall  be  the  last." 


64  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"That  old  woman's  tongue  would  make  anyone 
feel  the  same,"  said  David,  grimly,  "but  I  sha'n't 
leave  till  I've  got  the  better  of  her  so  far  as  my 
little  Lily  is  concerned.  I  don't  see,  though,  how 
anything  she  says  can  affect  you." 

"If  I  were  not  foolish  and  weak,  I  suppose  it 
would  not,"  said  Catherine,  vehemently  accusing 
herself.  "But  I  will  own  to  you,  David,  that  I 
come  back  after  an  interview  with  her  shaking 
in  every  limb.  I  can't  sleep  at  night  for  thinking 
of  what  she  said  and  how  she  said  it.  The  bad 
motives  she  imputes  to  every  one.  The — the 
way  she  scoffs  at  the  things  one  thought  one  was 
doing  of  wise  and  sensible."  Catherine's  English 
was  apt,  in  moments  of  excitement,  to  recur  to 
the  translations  of  her  Anglo-French  childhoood. 
"She  makes  one's  peaceful,  busy  life  seem  some- 
how only  futile  and  silly,  and  one  loses  confidence 
in  oneself  and  one's  plans.  Perhaps  you,  being  a 
man,  can  hardly  understand  such  weakness, 
and  yet  I  think  you  can,  and  do — for  you  are  very 
like  Delia.  Oh,  David,  I  miss  her  still,  after  all 
these  years,  for  I  never  had  a  friend  before,  and  I 
shall  never  have  one  again." 

A  tear  fell  on  to  Catherine's  little  slender  hands, 
clasped  in  the  lap  of  her  grey  gown.  She  wore 
always  grey  or  black,  with  soft  blendings  of  white, 
very  dainty  and  spotless,  and  perhaps  the  sim- 
plicity of  her  gowns  helped  to  keep  some  shadow 
of  her  lost  youth  about  her  still. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  65 

Hers  was  not  a  face  that  had  ever  been  beautiful, 
save  for  a  pair  of  fine  hazel  eyes,  and  a  certain 
purity  of  colouring.  It  was  not  beautiful  now, 
but  the  serene  and  healthful  life  she  had  led  in 
the  mild  air  of  the  Devon  hills  had  stolen  but 
little  of  her  early  freshness  of  tint,  though  the 
face  was  paler,  and  the  regard  perhaps  less  bright. 

The  eyes  of  middle-age  are  often  but  ghosts  of 
their  former  selves;  robbed  of  their  brilliance, 
of  their  curved  and  pointed  length  of  lashes,  of 
their  clear  blue  whites,  and  their  setting  of  smooth 
brow  and  glowing  cheek;  the  little  windows  of  the 
soul  grow  dimmer  with  the  passing  of  the  years. 
But  at  five  and  thirty  Catherine's  hazel  eyes  were 
yet  beautiful  enough,  and  the  soul  looked  forth 
from  them  with  the  almost  childish  gentleness 
and  wistfulness  that  David  remembered  in  the 
charming  maiden  who  had  gone  primrosing  with 
him  on  that  far-off  April  day. 

"You  have  a  friend  in  me,  now  and  always.  I 
think  you  know  that,"  he  answered  her,  as  im- 
pulsively as  Delia  herself  would  have  spoken  and 
with  as  little  self-consciousness.  "And  if  you 
miss  Delia,  what  about  me?  You  see,"  he  went  on 
unsteadily,  "there  were  only  us  two,  and  when 
she  went — I  knew  there  wasn't  a  soul  on  earth 
who  really  cared  what  became  of  me.  I  don't 
mean  I  haven't  plenty  of  friends,  but  that's  not 
the  same  thing.  One's  success  or  failure,  one's 
sickness  or  one's  health,  isn't  a  matter  of  life  or 

5 


66  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

death  to  one's  friends,  however  devoted  they  are. 
There  wasn't  anything  left  for  me — but  work." 

"You  have  done  so  splendidly,"  cried  Catherine. 
"Oh,  David,  often  and  often  I  have  thought — 
if  Delia  could  only  have  heard  this — if  she  could 
only  have  read  that " 

"Aye,  so  have  I,"  said  David,  simply  enough. 
"But  there  it  is.  I'd  nobody  to  telegraph  my 
good  news  to ;  nobody  whose  pleasure  in  the  show 
was  the  real  thing  one  cared  most  about.  But  it's 
no  use  thinking  of  that,"  he  went  on  more  cheer- 
fully. "I  suppose  there  are  any  amount  of  old 
people,  and  not  a  few  middle-aged  ones,  who 
know  the  sadness  of  a  success  when  there's  no 
one  left  to  be  pleased  about  it." 

Catherine  looked  into  her  past,  and  found  no 
one  there  to  whom  her  success  or  failure  had 
ever  been  a  matter  of  life  or  death.  But  her 
sympathy  was  none  the  less  with  David,  for  she 
knew  his  sister  had  idolised  him  beyond  every 
one  and  everything  in  the  world. 

"That's  the  worst  of  putting  all  one's  eggs  in 
one  basket,"  he  said,  trying  to  laugh.  "Ah, 
Catherine,  you  don't  know  what  the  blank  of 
mail-day  was  to  me,  for  years  after  Delia  died. 
I  don't  believe  she  ever  missed  a  mail,  God  bless 
her.  Fellows  who  have  lived  ten  years  out  of 
England  at  a  stretch  know  what  that  means." 

"Did  the  thought  of  her  children  comfort  you 
a  little?" 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  67 

"I  can't  say  it  did,"  he  returned  frankly. 
"If  anything,  I  felt  a  grudge  against  the  poor 
atom  who  had  been  the  innocent  cause  of — but 
now  I've  seen  her,  a  little  living  reminder  of  Delia, 
of  course  it's  different.  Coming  home  has  brought 
it  all  back,  though,  worse  than  I  thought;  and 
especially  seeing  poor  George  so  miserable." 

"He  has  never  got  over  it,"  said  Catherine, 
sympathetically. 

"It  isn't  that,"  he  said  briefly. 

She  waited. 

"Catherine,  there's  only  one  thing  for  George 
to  do — he  ought  to  marry  again." 

"Foi*  say  that!" 

"I  am  the  only  person  who  can  say  it,  because 
I'm  the  only  person  who  sees  things  as  Delia 
would  have  seen  them.     George  knows  that." 

' '  I  can't  help  feeling — I  am  sure  he  would  feel — 
that  it  would  be  unfaithful,"  she  faltered. 

"The  dead  cannot  share  our  lives  with  us,  how- 
ever dear  their  memories  are,"  said  David.  "One 
would  become  morbid  and  cowardly  if  one  didn't 
fight  one's  sorrow  and  put  it  in  the  background 
of  work  and  existence."  He  stopped  short,  for 
the  wistful  questioning  in  poor  Catherine's  eyes 
reminded  him  that  she,  too,  was  in  something 
of  the  same  position  as  George.  He  leant  forward 
and  took  her  hand  gently.  "It  is  very  different 
for  you.  A  woman's  sorrow  is  a  very  sacred  and 
beautiful  thing,"  he  said,  with  emotion.     "But 


68  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

George  is  a  man,  and  has  to  live  a  man's  life  and 
do  a  man's  vrork." 

He  released  the  little  soft  hand,  and  rose  from 
his  chair,  once  more  restlessly  pacing  the  low  room. 

"I  can  see  what  sort  of  an  existence  George 
has  been  leading  for  some  years  past.  He  came 
back  listless  and  broken-hearted,  and  let  his 
mother  and  sister  say  and  do  what  they  would. 
Old  Aunt  Lydia  rules  the  house  with  a  rod  of 
iron,  and  Clara  is  her  blind  and  stupid  mouth- 
piece. If  the  child  shows  a  flash  of  her  mother's 
spirit,  she  is  snubbed,  and  whatever  she  does  or 
does  not  do  she  is  nagged  at  from  morning  tiU 
night  by  Clara,  who  has  kindly  undertaken  her 
education,  and  imagines  herself  the  most  devoted 
aunt  in  the  world." 

"Have  you  said  anything?" 

"I  am  too  wise  to  waste  my  words.  In  their 
eyes,  you  know,  I  am  still  the  presumptuous 
young  man  who  ventured  into  the  army  when 
he  ought  to  have  looked  for  a  three-legged  stool 
in  an  office.  I  shall  be  a  poor  relation  in  the  esti- 
mation of  Aunt  Lydia  to  the  end  of  the  chapter, 
just  as  George  will  always  be  a  fashionable  young 
Guardsman." 

Catherine  could  not  help  a  little  low  laugh. 

"That  is  it,  exactly.  So  am  I  a  poor  relation, 
though  of  course  it  is  a  hundred  times  more 
ridiculous  in  your  case,"  she  said,  with  her  cus- 
tomary and  quite  unaffected  humility. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  69 

"Idon't  see  that." 

"You  don't  see  yourself,"  said  Catherine, 
smiling.  "But  I  am  sure  Aunt  Lydia  must  be 
proud  of  you  in  her  heart.  I  wish  you  had  heard 
her  boasting  of  you  during  the  war  to  poor  Mrs. 
Bell,  whose  son  was  a  humble  trooper  in  the 
yeomanry.  She  laid  down  the  law  so  about  the 
latest  victories,  and  contradicted  the  newspaper 
accounts  so  flatly,  that  we  thought  she  must  be 
really  quoting  your  letters." 

"I  never  wrote  to  her  from  South  Africa  but 
once,"  said  David,  grimly,  "to  thank  her  for  the 
one  letter  she  wrote  me." 

"When  you  got  your  V.C?" 

"No,  no.  When  I  was  taken  prisoner,"  said 
David,  smiling.  ' '  She  wrote  to  tell  me  how  very 
imlucky  it  was,  and  how  they  all  felt  for  my 
mortification,  and  how  much  she  hoped  I  had  not 
been  too  severely  blamed  by  the  authorities." 

"Why,"  cried  Catherine,  indignantly,  "the 
papers  were  full  of  praise — you  were  dangerously 
wounded — you '  * 

"Oh,  that  was  all  right,"  said  David.  "I 
wrote  from  hospital,  and  thanked  her  kindly, 
and  said  I  hoped  I  might  live  it  down  in  time. 
The  composition  of  that  letter  helped  me  and 
my  friend  Pollock — who  lost  his  leg,  poor  chap, 
in  the  same  action — through  a  weary  time.  You 
see,  condolences  are  more  in  Aunt  Lydia's  line 
than  congratulations.    When  I  inherited  my  old 


70  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

uncle's  little  fortune,  she  was  as  mum  as  a  stock- 
fish; and  I  remember  poor  Delia  writing  that 
neither  Aunt  Lydia  nor  Clara  could  rest  at  night 
for  anxiety  lest  my  unexpected  good  luck  should 
turn  my  head." 

"But  how  glad  Delia  was.  She  was  always 
saying,  '  Now  David  can  exchange  into  the  cavalry ; 
now  he  can  keep  polo  ponies;  now  he  can  rise  as 
high  as  he  will — if  only  he  doesn't  get  married ' — 
and  you  didn't  get  married,"  said  Catherine. 

"No,  no,  I  am  not  a  marrying  man,"  said  David, 
colouring  and  laughing.  "It  is  George  who  ought 
to  find  a  wife.  I  want  to  get  him  to  come  up  to 
town  with  me,  directly  I've  found  rooms  and  got 
into  harness  at  the  War  Office.  Once  there,  it 
will  be  easy  enough.  There  must  be  plenty  of 
pretty  young  ladies  about,  and  George  knows 
lots  of  people,  though  I  don't." 

Catherine  smiled;  but,  quick  as  he  was,  David 
did  not  divine  the  cause  of  her  smile. 

"Are  you  sure  that  for  little  Lily  it  would  not 
be  jumping  out  of  the  frying-pan  into  the  fire? 
Why  should  an  unknown  stepmother  be  better 
for  her  than  Clara?" 

"Anybody  would  be  better  than  Clara,"  said 
David,  decidedly,  "anybody  young  and  nice  and 
sympathetic." 

"Suppose  he  caught  a  tartar?" 

"That  would  be  unfortunate,  certainly." 

"You  know  George  does  rather  lend  himself 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  71 

to — I  don't  mean  he  isn't  manly  enough,"  said 
Catherine,  hesitating,  "but — Delia  did  just  what 
she  liked  with  him." 

"Oh,  I  know  he's  one  of  those  good-natured 
fellows  who  are  always  led  by  the  nose  by  some 
woman  or  other,"  said  David.  "That's  why  it's 
so  obvious  he  ought  to  marry.  It's  more  natural 
that  a  wife  should  boss  him  than  his  mamma  and 
sister;  and  then  they  could  be  off  to  Cheltenham 
or  Bath  and  leave  him  in  peace.  That  was  to  have 
been  the  programme  eventually  if  poor  Delia  had 
lived.  And  perhaps  then,  Catherine,"  his  brown 
eyes  softened,  "they  would  spare  little  Lily  to 
me  now  and  then.  "She's  the  only  creature  in  the 
world  who  seems  to  me  a  little  bit  like  Delia. 
I  don't  feel  drawn  to  Hector  in  the  same  way, 
though  he's  a  fine  lad.    I  went  to  see  him  at  Eton." 

"He  and  Philippa  are  just  of  an  age." 

"A  boy  is  one  thing  and  a  girl  is  another.  Phil- 
ippa is  ten  years  older  than  that  young  cub  for  all 
practical  purposes." 

"Did  you  think  her  pretty?"  asked  Catherine, 
timidly. 

"Pretty!  I  have  seen  nothing  half  so  beautiful 
for  many  a  long  day." 

Catherine's  heart  warmed  with  this  unaccus- 
tomed enthusiasm. 

"It  must  be  very  dull  for  her  in  this  out-of-the 
way  place,  though,"  said  David.  "How  much 
longer  are  you  going  to  keep  her  mewed  up  here?" 


72  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"Why,  that  is  the  question,"  said  Catherine, 
and  she  tried  to  laugh,  but  her  eyes  grew  misty. 
"She  thinks  it  very  hard  she  should  be  mewed 
up  here  at  all." 

"So  it  is.  She  ought  to  see  something  of  the 
world,  and  it's  high  time  she  began.  It's  not  fair 
to  a  pretty  girl  to  let  her  grow  rustic  and  awkward 
by  keeping  her  out  of  every  one's  way." 

"Augusta  wants  to  take  her  to  London  when 
she  returns." 

"An  excellent  plan." 

"But  I'm  not  sure  that  I  care  to  trust  her  with 
Augusta,"  said  Catherine,  uneasily. 

"Why,  what  harm  could  come  to  her  in  Lady 
Adelstane's  hands?  She's  a  good-natured  creature, 
surely?  And  Cecil  Adelstane  is  a  kind  of  pillar 
of  the  British  Constitution." 

"I  know  I'm  foolish — but  I — I  never  have  been 
parted  from  her  yet,"  said  Catherine,  wistfully. 
"She's  all  I've  got." 

"I  see,"  said  David,  gently.  "Well,  but  why 
not  go  up  to  town  with  her  yourself?" 

She  hesitated  and  stammered.  How  could 
she  tell  David  that  it  was  Philippa  who  did  not 
wish  her  mother  to  come? 

Catherine,  looking  at  Delia's  brother,  thought 
that  here  was  the  friend  she  had  unconsciously 
sought,  full  of  sympathy  and  understanding  and 
gentleness.  She  felt  a  great  longing  to  confide  in 
David.    But  Philippa  was  sacred — she  could  not 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  73 

speak  of  her.  She  thought  to  herself,  however, 
that  if  David  were  really  like  Delia  he  would 
understand  her  trouble  without  words,  so  far  as  a 
man  could  understand;  she  made  this  reservation 
timidly,  as  one  whose  experience  of  mankind  had 
been  very  limited. 

"Of  course  I  would  prefer  to  take  her  myself 
to  London,"  she  faltered,  "but " 

"I  expect  you  feel  you've  dropped  out  of  it  all — 
living  here  in  seclusion  for  so  many  years,"  he 
said  kindly. 

"It's  not  that  altogether.  I  never  was  in  it," 
said  Catherine,  very  honestly.  "I  went  where 
they  took  me,  of  course — my  husband  and  Lady 
Sarah.  But  it  was  among  their  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances; they  never  really  became  mine. 
If  I  had  been" — she  smiled — "as  beautiful  as  a 
houri,  as  witty  as  a  geisha,  and  as  faultless  as  an 
angel,  I  doubt  if  they  would  ever  have  been 
interested  in  me." 

"Wouldn't  they!"  said  David,  laughing,  "that 
is — I  am  not  sure  about  the  angel!" 

"No — for  there  was  something  in  me  that 
wouldn't  let  me  be  interested  in  them.  Interest 
must  be  mutual.  I  always  longed  to  creep  away 
into  a  comer.  I  suppose  it  is  some  defect  in  my 
constitution.  I  think  I  have  always  liked  things 
better  than  people.  Things  real  or  abstract. 
Work  and  dreaming  and  books  and  out-of-doors 
always  pleased  me  best.     I  always  longed  for  a 


74  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

little  life  of  my  own — and  here  I  am,  you  see, 
living  it." 

"But  that  is  rather  hard  on  Philippa." 

"Yes,"  said  Catherine,  blankly,  "I  suppose  it  is 
— rather  hard  on  Philippa." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"Of  course,  I  know  I  must  make  an  effort  one 
day  to  take  her  out  in  London — ^however  unsuited 
I  am,"  said  Catherine,  almost  faintly.  "But 
since  she  is  only  sixteen,  and  such  a  baby — such 
a  baby — for  her  age." 

"She  looks  twenty;  and  it  won't  be  any  easier 
to  begin  a  year  or  two  hence  than  it  is  now,"  said 
David,  drily. 

"What  would  you  advise  me  to  do?"  said 
Catherine,  suddenly. 

He  considered. 

"Perhaps  it  is  not  fair  to  ask  you  to  take  the 
responsibility  of  advising  me,"  she  faltered. 

He  looked  at  her  in  amused  surprise. 

"I  don't  mind  accepting  the  responsibility.  A 
man  can  only  give  the  best  advice  in  his  power. 
I  think  you  ought  to  let  your  daughter  go.  Why 
should  she  suffer  because  you  have  chosen  to  live  in 
seclusion  all  these  years  ?  No  doubt  the  Adelstanes 
can  give  her  many  advantages ;  they  know  every- 
body— ^and  are,  after  all,  her  nearest  relations.  But 
of  course  if  there  is  any  reason  why  you  should  not 
think  it  advisable  to  trust  her  to  Lady  Adelstane — 
it  would  be  far  better  to  take  her  yourself." 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  75 

Catherine  hesitated.  "No,  there  is  nothing — I 
can't  say  there  is  anything.  Augusta  is  perhaps — 
not  a  very  sincere  person." 

"Women  seldom  are  very  sincere,  I  suppose,'* 
said  David,  calmly. 

Catherine  did  not  agree  with  him,  but  she  was 
not  in  the  habit  of  contradicting  the  superior  sex, 
and  he  took  her  meek  silence  for  consent. 

"I  think  you  take  it  rather  seriously,"  he  said, 
cheerfully.  "After  all,  if  you  feel  it  so  much  as 
all  that,  it  would  certainly  be  best  to  go  up  with 
her  yourself." 

"I  would  like  to,"  said  Catherine,  "but — " 
she  faltered  again.  She  could  not  tell  David  that 
in  Philippa's  eyes  all  the  charm  of  the  expedition 
would  vanish  if  her  mother  accompanied  her; 
that  the  child  had  grown  restless  and  discontented 
under  her  perpetual  tender  supervision. 

But  as  she  hesitated  Philippa  herself  opened 
the  door  of  the  parlour,  and  innocently  saved 
Catherine  all  further  trouble  of  explanation.  Her 
handsome  face  was  flushed  and  heated,  and  her 
bright  hair  ruffled,  as  usual,  about  her  ears.  She 
wore  a  plain  blue  linen  frock,  which  defined  her 
tall,  full,  slender  figure,  and  fell  just  below  her 
ankles  in  rather  scanty  folds. 

She  looked  so  fair  and  noble,  with  her  straight 
features  and  brilliant  colouring,  all  lit  up,  as  it 
were,  with  sunshine  and  youth  and  gladness, 
that  Catherine  stole  a  glance  at  David,  full  of 


76  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

pride  and  pleasure,  wondering  whether  he  too 
would  be  affected  by  the  beauty  of  this  radiant 
vision. 

With  the  quickness  of  childhood,  Philippa  de- 
tected her  mother's  embarassment,  and  divined 
the  cause. 

"You  have  been  asking  Cousin  David's  advice, 
mamma,"  she  said  eagerly.  "Oh,  Cousin  David, 
do,  do  beg  her  not  to  spoil  all  my  fun  by  coming 
up  to  London,  and  stopping  in  a  poky  lodging 
or  a  horrid  hotel,  just  to  keep  an  eye  on  me. 
You  know  she's  far  happier  here,  and  I  do  so  long 
to  try  just  for  once  in  a  way  what  it  would  be 
like  to  go  and  pay  a  visit  all  by  myself,  like  any 
other  girl,  and  to  stay  with  dear,  dear,  kind 
Cousin  Augusta." 

Catherine  looked  anxiously  at  David  to  see  how 
he  would  take  this  revelation,  to  her  so  tragic,  of 
Philippa's  wish  to  leave  her;  but  she  perceived 
only  laughter  and  admiration  in  his  bro\Mi  eyes. 

Colonel  Moore  thought  it  the  most  natural  thing 
in  the  world  that  a  pretty  girl  should  pine  for  a 
little  freedom  and  pleasure,  and  a  taste  of  the 
gaieties  suitable  to  her  age. 

Catherine  realised  instantly  with  a  curious 
pang  of  mingled  surprise,  pain,  and  amusement 
that,  though  David  was  of  her  own  generation,  he 
was  nevertheless  both  by  sympathy  and  instinct 
not  on  her  side  but  Philippa's  in  this  matter. 


CHAPTER  V 

Though  Lady  Sarah  Adelstane  had  called  her 
grandson  Cecil  a  wise  man,  and  though  he  was 
undoubtedly  a  rich  one,  he  was  nevertheless 
living  beyond  his  income ;  and  the  fact  made  him 
irritable  in  the  daytime  and  wakeful  at  night. 

Like  many  men  who  have  married  women 
with  fortunes,  he  personally  benefited  very  little 
from  his  wife's  wealth,  whilst  she  made  it  a  per- 
petual excuse  for  getting  everything  she  wanted. 

Since  he  had  entered  upon  his  inheritance  of 
his  uncle's  fortune,  Welwysbere  Abbey  had  been 
put  into  perfect  order  and  repair ;  modem  drainage 
and  electric  lighting  had  been  installed,  and 
elaborate  new  stabling  had  been  erected.  Reflect- 
ing upon  the  largeness  of  his  wife's  income,  he  had 
paid  off  every  mortgage  upon  the  property  out 
of  his  own  capital,  rebuilt  farms  and  cottages, 
and  bought  coveted  adjacent  land. 

All  these  works  being  accomplished — and  they 
were  the  happy  occupation  of  years — Sir  Cecil 
found  his  remaining  income  not  more  than  suffi- 
cient to  support  the  army  of  dependents  requisite 
for  the  maintenance  of   his  splendid  residence, 

77 


78  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

and  he  naturally  turned  to  his  wife  for  that  assist- 
ance which  her  fortune  rendered  her  able  to 
afford.  At  first  all  had  gone  very  well,  but,  as 
the  owner  of  a  country  house  who  entertains  is 
generally  obliged  to  discover,  expenses  are  apt  to 
multiply  with  years,  as  dependents  rather  incline 
to  increase  than  to  dwindle  in  numbers.  Lady 
Adelstane  had  never  been  accustomed  to  spend 
much  time  in  the  country,  and  when  she  grew 
tired  of  her  husband's  West  Country  paradise  she 
discovered  that  it  hurt  her  health  to  remain  there. 
She  found  small  difficulty  in  persuading  her  physi- 
cian to  back  her  opinion ;  Sir  Cecil  was  told  that 
the  Abbey  was  damp  and  the  climate  depressing, 
and  that  it  would  be  highly  prejudicial  to  his 
wife's  health  to  remain  there  against  her  will. 
Had  arguments  been  wanting,  the  fact  that  Au- 
gusta attributed  her  failure  to  produce  an  heir 
entirely  to  the  relaxing  qualities  of  the  West 
Country  air  would  have  convinced  her  husband 
of  the  necessity  for  leaving  it.  It  spite  of  the 
constantly  increasing  population  of  the  village, 
he  was  willing  to  believe  his  wife  and  the  doctors, 
and  travelled  with  her  all  over  Europe  in  search  of 
the  fecundity  which  nature  had  denied. 

During  the  intervals  of  travel.  Lady  Adelstane 
entertained  her  friends  in  town  very  lavishly,  for 
she  had  purchased  a  fine  house  in  Belgrave  Square; 
but,  as  she  not  only  paid  for  the  lease  but  for  the 
plenishing  of  this  mansion,  she  pointed  out  to  her 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  79 

husband  that  in  common  fairness  he  should 
buy  the  yacht  upon  which  she  had  set  her  heart. 
Sir  Cecil  was  conscious  of  imprudence,  but,  instead 
of  reminding  his  wife  that  he  had  neither  desired 
nor  advised  the  purchase  of  a  town  house,  he 
complied  with  her  request,  making  the  less  demur 
because  he  was  passsionately  fond  of  the  sea. 

This  life  afforded  Lady  Adelstane  the  perpet- 
ual distraction  for  which  her  soul  craved.  Be- 
ing continuously  hospitable  at  home  and  abroad, 
she  and  her  husband  became  a  very  popular 
couple.  If  Sir  Cecil  were  intimate  with  no  one, 
he  had  innumerable  acquaintances  and  was 
respected  by  them  all;  and  if  Augusta's  violent 
friendships  lasted  but  a  short  time — why,  a 
woman  in  her  position  can  afford  to  be  capricious, 
and  new  friends  succeeded  old  ones  with  oblig- 
ing facility,  nor  did  the  supply  show  any  signs  of 
being  likely  to  fail. 

Her  perpetual  amiability,  her  infantile  dimples, 
her  extravagant  attire,  and  incessant  babble 
rendered  her  rather  attractive  for  a  short  time; 
and,  though  her  selfishness  must  become  evident 
upon  closer  acquaintance,  it  readily  escaped 
notice  in  a  world  which  is  only  too  willing  to  take 
people  as  it  finds  them  on  the  surface. 

But  whilst  his  wife's  cherubic  countenance 
remained  smooth  in  spite  of  the  passing  of  years, 
Sir  Cecil's  handsome  face  acquired  a  careworn 
and  harassed  expression. 


80  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

Beyond  all  earthly  things  he  loved  the  Abbey ; 
but  he  sometimes  wondered  painfully  whether  it 
were  worth  while  to  maintain  an  establishment  so 
costly  for  the  sake  of  a  few  weeks'  occasional  resid- 
ence at  Welwysbere,  whilst  his  actual  existence  was 
spent  in  London,  Scotland,  and  the  Mediterranean. 
A  secret  consolation  dawned  upon  him  when  he 
perceived  that  Philippa  shared  his  love  for  the 
Abbey,  and  his  pride  in  the  estate  that  had  been 
in  the  possession  of  the  Adelstanes  for  so  many 
generations. 

Catherine  had  desired  that  her  child  should  not 
be  informed  of  the  possibility  of  her  succession 
to  the  ownership  of  Welwysbere,  and  Sir  Cecil  had 
scrupulously  respected  this  desire;  but  now  that 
the  possibility  had  become  a  probability,  and 
that  Philippa  was  so  nearly  grown  up,  it  was 
tacitly  understood  that  it  was  well  she  should  be 
brought  to  a  sense  of  her  future  responsibilities, 
and  Augusta  talked  openly  of  the  festivities  that 
must  be  organised  for  Philippa's  coming  of  age. 

Catherine  feared  her  daughter  might  be  led 
to  think  too  much  of  her  own  importance,  and 
strove  by  private  warnings  of  her  own  to  modify 
Philippa's  expectations. 

"You  know,  darling,  nothing  is  certain  in  this 
world." 

"Why,  mamma,  I  am  the  last  of  the  Adelstanes. 
Of  course  I  know  it  won't  be  for  years  and  years 
— I  hope  not.    But  the  Abbey  must  belong  to 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  81 

me  some  day,  or  to  my  children,"  added  Miss 
Philippa  calmly. 

"Your  cousin  Cecil  is  quite  a  young  man," 
then,  as  Philippa  smiled,  "well,  middle-aged.  A 
thousand  things  might  happen ;  he  may  yet  have 
heirs  of  his  own " 

"Oh,  mamma,  they  have  been  married  eighteen 
years.    Roper  says  it's  most  improbable." 

"Roper  had  no  business  to  mention  such  things 
to  you." 

"I'm  not  a  baby,"  said  Philippa,  pouting. 
"Every  one  but  you  knows  that,  mamma,  and 
people  talk  quite  differently  to  me  when  you're 
not  listening.  I  know  why  you're  afraid,  mamma: 
you  think  the  notion  of  the  Abbey  being  my  very 
own  will  turn  my  head,  and  make  me  want  it  whilst 
Cousin  Cecil  is  still  alive.  But  you're  quite  wrong. 
I  don't  want  to  settle  down  there  a  bit  until  I'm 
quite  old  and  have  been  all  over  the  world,  and 
enjoyed  myself  for  years.  Though,  of  course,  I 
like  to  know  it  will  be  mine ;  and  so  it  ought,  for, 
after  all,  it  belonged  to  my  father,  and  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  the  horrid  old  entail  you  and  I  would  be 
living  there  now." 

"I  would  far  rather  be  living  here,"  said 
Catherine. 

"I  wouldn't, then.  I  love  the  Abbey  and  this 
is  horrid  in  some  ways.  I  always  feel  ashamed 
when  callers  come  and  there  is  no  proper  drawing- 
room,"  said  Philippa,  who  was  conventional  to 


82  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

her  finger-tips.  "Of  course  I  don't  mean,"  she 
added  relenting,  "that  I'm  not  fond  of  this  place, 
and  don't  know  it's  pretty  and  all  that,  but  I 
don't  like  to  live  in  a  farmhouse,  and  I  feel  much 
more  at  home  in  the  Abbey." 

"But  it  isn't  your  home,  Phil,  and  I  hope  you 
will  keep  before  you  the  possibility  that  you  may 
never  inherit  at  all.  Even  if  Augusta  has  no 
children,  she  might  not  live  for  ever — I  don't 
like  to  say  such  things,  but  I  must — Cousin  Cecil 
might  marry  again,  and  have  sons " 

"Of  course,  I  know  that,"  said  Philippa,  im- 
patiently. * '  I  might  die  myself,  all  sorts  of  things 
might  happen.  You  always  throw  cold  water  on 
everything,  mamma,"  she  said  in  an  injured  tone. 

Catherine  abandoned  her  arguments  in  despair. 

Now  that  the  owners  had  returned  to  the  Abbey 
for  Whitsuntide,  both  mother  and  daughter  were 
constantly  invited  there ;  for  Augusta  appealed  to 
Catherine  to  assist  her  in  the  entertainment 
of  Lady  Sarah,  whilst  Philippa  asked  nothing 
better  than  to  follow  Augusta  wherever  she  went. 

"Between  grandmamma's  age  and  her  eccen- 
tricity, it  is  growing  frightfully  difBcult  to  know 
what  to  do  with  her,"  Augusta  complained  to 
Catherine.  "I  got  Lord  John  down  on  purpose  to 
amuse  her,  for  really  he  is  a  man  I  care  nothing 
about  and  one  of  the  dullest  people  in  the  world, 
thinking  of  nothing  but  eating  and  drinking; 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  83 

so  I  thought  they  would  potter  about  together. 
But  no  such  thing;  he  has  taken  to  going  round 
the  golf  links  with  Grace  Trumoin;  so  that  I 
scarcely  get  a  word  with  her,  though  you  know 
what  chums  we  are." 

"She  is  very  charming,"  said  Catherine. 

* '  I  am  so  glad  you  like  her ;  I  am  quite  devoted 
to  her,"  said  Augusta,  beaming.  "She  and  I 
have  so  much  in  common.  We  both  adore  yacht- 
ing, and  we  have  some  mutual  friends  we  can't 
bear.  I  always  think  that  a  great  bond.  Well, 
I  see  next  to  nothing  of  her,  what  with  her  golfing 
all  day  and  bridging  all  night.  And  there  is  really 
no  excuse  for  her  taking  any  notice  of  Lord  John, 
for  every  one  knows  he  hasn't  a  penny  in  the 
world." 

"Still,  you  have  your  sister,"  said  Catherine, 
soothingly. 

' '  I  don't  want  to  say  anything  against  Blanche," 
said  Augusta,  discontentedly  "but  you  know 
how  it  is  with  one's  family.  One  can  never  please 
them,  do  what  one  will.  As  I  always  say,  scratch 
a  relation  and  find  an  enemy." 

"You  can't  expect  your  relations  to  like  being 
scratched,"  said  Catherine,  laughing  outright. 
"And  you  must  own  she  is  very  good-natured, 
Augusta." 

"I  don't  say  she  isn't,"  said  Augusta,  resignedly, 
"I  am  sure  the  way  she  humours  poor  Bob  Rait 
is  quite  touching.     Such  a  fifth-rate  man  as  he 


84  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

turned  out  to  be  after  all,  with  quite  impossible 
relations.  It  is  really  a  little  hard  on  one  for 
one's  sister  to  make  such  a  marriage.  What  she 
saw  in  him  I  never  could  make  out,  except  that 
he  has  a  very  fine  property,  but  Blanche  is  far  too 
senseless  to  be  influenced  by  a  solid  reason  like  that 
for  liking  a  man.  Besides,  his  income  was  much 
exaggerated.  All  she  could  say  for  him  was  that 
he'd  got  a  good  leg  for  a  boot,  and  the  best  seat 
on  a  horse  she'd  ever  seen.  And  yet,  now  they've 
given  up  horses  and  taken  to  motors,  they  seem  as 
devoted  as  ever,  which  is  absurd." 

"Well,  if  they  are  happy " 

"I  don't  see  how  anybody  can  be  happy  with 
such  a  man.  He  is  the  soul  of  tactlessness;  the 
sort  of  person  who  reminds  you  afterwards  in 
cold  blood  of  indiscreet  confidences  which  you 
wish  you  hadn't  told  him,  and  who  shouts  your 
Christian  name  after  you  if  you  meet  him  in  the 
street.  He  slapped  my  back  once  in  a  room  full  of 
strangers,"  said  Augusta,  swelling  with  rufBed 
dignity.  "Imagine  how  I  felt!  Such  things  are 
not  done !  I  always  apologise  to  Cecil  for  having 
him  here  at  all;  he  is  so  shockingly  ill-bred." 

"He  has  a  very  good  heart,"  said  Catherine, 
"and  one  gets  used  to  his  little  ways." 

"I  do  not  see  that  a  good  heart  is  an  excuse 
for  slapping  a  lady  on  the  back,"  said  Augusta 
reprovingly.  "I  am  sure  you  wotild  not  have 
liked  it  yourself." 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  85 

Catherine  owned  that  she  would  not  have  Hked 
it,  and  the  admission  molHfied  Augusta. 

"Luckily  this  rage  for  motoring  keeps  him  out 
of  Lady's  Sarah's  way,"  she  said.  "I  suppose  it 
is  better  she  should  be  dull  than  annoyed,  and 
she  cannot  endure  the  sight  of  him.  It  is  the 
only  point  we  have  in  common.  Would  you 
believe  it,  he  asked  her  the  other  day  how  old  she 
was!  It  was  most  unlucky  Blanche  should  have 
proposed  herself  just  now,  as  she  practically 
did." 

"Perhaps  I  had  better  go  and  find  Lady  Sarah 
now,"  said  Catherine,  growing  tired  of  the  recital 
of  Augusta's  grievances. 

"Don't  hurry  away  just  when  I  want  to  talk 
to  you,"  cried  Augusta.  "I  particularly  asked 
you  to  come  early  this  morning.  Grandmamma 
always  comes  down  soon  after  twelve  and  takes  a 
turn  before  luncheon .  Surely  it  will  be  time  enough 
for  you  to  see  her  then." 

Augusta  was  seated  in  a  garden-tent,  open  on 
both  sides,  and  looking  on  to  a  stretch  of  turf, 
which  the  gardeners  were  now  busily  engaged 
in  mowing  and  rolling,  winding  their  way  in  and 
out  of  the  brilliant  variegated  beds. 

Beyond  the  light  palings  which  bounded  the 
lawns  on  the  one  side,  the  deer  were  couched 
in  the  shade  of  the  oaks,  for  the  midday  sun  was 
very  powerful.  On  the  other  side,  close  to  the 
house,  stretched  the  tennis  courts,  where  Catherine 


86  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

could  see  Philippa's  light  form  running  to  and 
fro,  and  her  bright  hair  blowing  in  the  wind, 

"Philippa  takes  no  care  of  her  complexion," 
said  Augusta,  following  Catherine's  gaze.  "She 
left  her  hat  here  on  the  table  in  spite  of  all  I 
could  say.  Girls  are  always  like  that.  I  wonder 
you  let  her  play  singles,  Catherine ;  it  is  very  hard 
work  when  a  man  plays  so  well  as  Colonel  Moore, 
let  him  give  her  as  many  points  as  he  will." 

"I  don't  think  he  would  let  her  overtire 
herself,"  said  Catherine,  anxiously.  "He  is  very 
careful  of  her." 

"He  is  quite  a  dear,"  said  Augusta  sentiment- 
ally. "That  is  exactly  my  idea  of  a  man,  you 
know.  Rather  domineering  and  very  clever, 
with  a  delightful  history  of  battles  and  things  in 
the  background.  Really  if  I  had  met  him  instead 
of  poor  Cecil,  there  is  no  saying,  but  I  suppose  it 
was  not  to  be.  However,  I  have  begged  him  to 
come  over  here  whenever  he  likes;  and  he  plays 
bridge,  which  is  such  a  comfort,  as  Cecil  won't 
and  George  Chilcott  can't.  So  he  is  most  useful  in 
the  evening,  sings  like  a  bird  and  quite  a  godsend. 
I  am  glad  he  is  going  to  the  War  Office.  He  will 
be  so  handy  for  the  opera.  I  am  so  fond  of  tame 
cats,  and  he  is  just  the  kind  of  tame  cat  I  really 
like." 

Here  Lady  Sarah  was  to  be  seen  slowly  moving 
across  the  lawn,  leaning  on  her  gold-headed  cane, 
and  followed  by  Tailer,  carrying  Mumbo  Jumbo, 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  87 

a  basket  of  crochet,  a  little  bag  without  which 
Lady  Sarah  never  stirred,  and  two  or  three  novels. 

Augusta  and  Catherine  hastened  to  meet  this 
procession,  and  to  assist  Tailer  in  establish- 
ing their  aged  relative  comfortably  beneath  the 
awning  of  the  tent. 

"Well,  my  love,"  said  the  old  lady.  "Here  I 
am,  you  see,  prepared  to  share  the  open-air  cure 
for  an  hour  or  so  before  lunch.  That  will  do, 
Tailer,  you  can  put  down  all  the  things  you  have 
brought,  and  go  back  and  fetch  all  the  things  you 
have  forgotten.  Where  is  Mumbo  Jumbo's  bis- 
cuit, pray?" 

Lady  Sarah  was  contriving  to  pass  the  time  at 
Welwysbere  agreeably  enough,  between  bullying 
Tailer  and  squabbling  with  Augusta,  and  the 
latter's  apprehensions  of  her  visitor's  dulness 
were  quite  unfounded. 

' '  I  will  leave  Catherine  to  entertain  you,  Grand- 
mamma. I  have  a  good  deal  to  do  and  was  only 
waiting  till  you  came  out,"  said  Augusta. 

"Never  think  about  me,  my  love,"  said  Lady 
Sarah  indulgently.  "Give  me  a  book  or  a  needle 
and  I  am  always  perfectly  happy.  Pray  continue 
your  usual  morning  occupations." 

Augusta  rustled  away  across  the  lawn,  in  her 
blue  muslin  and  Leghorn  hat,  looking  something 
like  an  overblown  Dresden  china  shepherdess. 

"My  appearance  is  always  the  signal  for 
Augusta's  household  duties  to  begin,"  said  Lady 


88  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

Sarah,  very  cheerfully,  to  Catherine.  "Well, 
my  love,  have  you  decided  to  take  my  advice 
about  Philippa?" 

"I  suppose  I  had  better,"  said  Catherine 
rather  sadly.  "David  Moore  said  just  the 
same." 

"Oh,  you  asked  him,  did  you.  He  is  a  fine 
fellow,  your  David  Moore.  We  had  the  dullest  of 
dinner  parties  last  night,  and  your  Colonel  was 
pleased  to  sing  to  us.  I  enjoyed  it  vastly,  for  I 
heard  every  word  of  the  Leather  Battel  and 
all  my  old  favourites.  Mr.  Bob  Rait  thinks  old 
English  ballads  vulgar.  That  sums  the  man  up 
in  a  word,  and  Miss  Clara  Chilcott  thought  fit  to 
agree  with  him.  She  also  confided  to  me  that 
she  did  not  think  it  looked  well  for  a  man  to  play 
the  piano." 

"Clara  is  of  the  nil  admirari  order,"  said 
Catherine. 

"That  class  of  person  usually  is,  my  love. 
After  all,  it  is  only  in  proportion  to  their  own 
cultivation  that  people  can  even  feel,  much  less 
express,  appreciation.  However,  I  dare  say 
Colonel  Moore  gets  plenty  of  flattery,  one  way 
or  the  other;  and  no  doubt  he  is  a  selfish  creature, 
as  any  man  must  be  who  lives  to  five-and-thirty 
without  getting  married.  So  he  is  your  cousin,  my 
love!  But  very  unlike  your  Chilcott  relations." 

"I  only  met  him  once — it  was  before  my  mar- 
riage.    He  came  to  Bridescombe.     I  remember 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  89 

we  went  primrosing  together.  It  was  the  first 
time  I  ever  went  primrosing  in  my  Hfe." 

"One  is  apt  to  remember  that  sort  of  occasion," 
said  Lady  Sarah,  busying  herself  with  her  crochet, 
but  perfectly  aware  that  the  colour  had  deepened 
in  Catherine's  soft  cheeks. 

"I  didn't  mean — anything  more  than  I  said," 
said  Catherine;  her  sincere  and  gentle  regard 
met  Lady  Sarah's  shrewd  glance  with  perfect 
candour. 

"My  dear,  you  look  five-and-twenty  when  you 
blush,"  said  Lady  Sarah,  in  a  tone  of  compli- 
ment. "Not  a  day  more.  It  is  a  most  becoming 
habit.  Though  one  I  was  never  able  to  acquire," 
she  added,  regretfully.  "Well,  well.  It  will 
make  poor  Cecil  happy  to  have  Philippa  in  town. 
He  needs  cheering.  I  tottered  round  the  gardens 
with  him  yesterday,  and  he  was  obliged  to  take 
me  to  the  old  parterre,  as  we  used  to  call  it.  A 
fine  mess  Augusta  has  made  of  it.  In  my  day  her- 
baceous borders  were  kept  in  the  kitchen  garden. 
I  never  pretended  to  much  horticultural  know- 
ledge, my  love,  but  I  hope  I  know  a  trifle  more  than 
Augusta.  To  hear  her  quoting  seedsmen's  cata- 
logues to  Grace  Trumoin  makes  me  positively 
ill.  She  is  a  Cockney  from  head  to  heel,  and 
could  not  distinguish  a  turnip-top  from  a  cabbage. 
Well,  there  is  not  a  quiet  green  comer  left  in  the 
old  place  but  some  hedgerow  bramble  or  other 
with  a  new  name  must  be  popped  into  it.     My 


90  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

favourite  copper  beech  cut  down  to  let  more  light 
in  on  her  roses,  so  that  she  can  walk  round  and 
reel  a  string  of  names  off  a  row  of  labels.  And 
such  names!  In  my  young  days  when  we  wished 
to  t>e  thought  botanists  we  quoted  Latin  as  ele- 
gantly as  possible.  Climbing  Bessie  Johnson 
indeed!  It  may  make  Augusta  think  of  a  rose, 
but  my  imagination  being  stronger  than  my 
eyesight,  it  conveys  nothing  to  me  but  the  vision 
of  a  vulgar  hoyden  scrambling  over  a  wall,"  said 
Lady  Sarah  resentfully. 

"Talking  of  hoydens,"  said  Catherine,  smiling, 
"Philippa  has  finished  her  set,  and  is  coming 
here  for  her  hat." 

Philippa  came  across  the  lawn,  tall  and  hand- 
some and  serious,  carrying  her  tennis  racket, 
and  followed  by  David,  who  looked  leaner  and 
browner  than  ever  in  his  flannels. 

Lady  Sarah,  sitting  upright  in  her  wicker  chair, 
with  her  Mechlin  head-dress,  and  white  curls 
crowning  her  beautful  old  face,  soft  and  cool,  deli- 
cate as  a  wrinkled  roseleaf,  looked  up  sharply 
as  Philippa  stooped  her  bright  head  to  kiss  her 
grandmother. 

"Well,  my  sweet  Philippa,  I  suppose  you  are 
in  the  seventh  heaven  of  delight." 

"Why,  he  beat  me,"  said  Philippa,  opening 
her  blue  eyes  in  wonder,  "though  he  gave  me 
points.  I  could  beat  Hector's  head  off  if  he  gave 
me  points,  for  I'm  nearly  even  with  him  as  it  is." 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  91 

"Pshaw.    I  was  not  thinking  of  your  games." 

"She  doesn't  know,"  interposed  Catherine. 

"Bless  me,  how  indiscreet  I  am,  but  you  can't 
grudge  her  poor  old  granny  the  pleasure  of  telling 
her,"  said  Lady  Sarah,  mischievously  hurrying 
out  her  news  lest  any  one  should  forestall  her, 
"that  she's  to  go  to  London  after  all." 

'  'Truly  ? "  cried  Philippa  in  breathless  joy.  "Do 
you  mean  by  myself — with  Cousin  Augusta?" 

Her  mother's  look  answered  her,  half-fond, 
half -reproachfully. 

"Was  it  granny  who  persuaded  you,  mother?" 
she  cried. 

"I  understand  we  divide  that  responsibility, 
Colonel  Moore,"  said  Lady  Sarah,  glancing  at 
the  tall  soldier  who  stood  in  the  entrance  of  the 
tent,  watching  Philippa's  ecstasy  with  an  amused 
smile. 

"What  a  fuss  to  make  about  a  trip  to  town," 
thought  David,  "and  what  a  dull  life  the  poor  girl 
must  have  led  to  be  so  excited  over  such  a  trifle." 

"I'm  quite  willing  to  acknowledge  my  share 
of  the  responsibility.  Lady  Sarah,"  he  said  gaily. 


CHAPTER  VI 

The  red  cliffs,  crowned  with  slopes  and  hillocks 
of  daisied  grass,  stood  out  against  blue  sky  and 
bluer  sea.  Below  them  the  foaming  waters 
surged  round  masses  of  soft  crumbling  shale, 
shining  black  and  gold  and  green,  with  wet  sea- 
weed. In  the  calm  distance  a  little  fishing-boat 
sailed  away  towards  the  horizon.  The  cliffs 
sloped  away  into  miles  of  sandy  down,  patched 
with  golden  gorse,  here  and  there  bearing  rank, 
coarse,  dry  grasses  to  the  very  edge  of  the  salt 
water. 

On  the  shore,  between  the  pointed  rocks,  tiny 
wild  creatures  of  the  deep  sported  in  a  fool's 
paradise  of  clear  quiet  pools,  unmindful  of  the 
arid  desolation  that  would  presently  overtake 
them  with  the  ebbing  of  the  tide. 

"All  this  within  reach  of  our  doors,  and  we 
have  never  come  here  before.  The  very  minute  I 
grow  up,  I  will  have  a  motor  of  my  own,"  cried 
Philippa.  "What  a  splendid  idea  of  Mr.  Ralt's 
to  have  a  picnic!" 

She  was  leaning  against  the  rocks,  and  the  fresh 
sea- wind  deepened  her  beautiful  colour  and  bright- 

9« 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  93 

ened  her  clear  eyes,  fluttering  her  blue  serge  skirt 
about  her  white  feet,  which  were  balancing  on 
the  side  of  one  of  the  little  pools  and  lapped  by 
the  miniature  wavelets  which  blew  across  its 
surface. 

On  the  top  of  the  rock  beside  her  a  little  figure 
was  perched. 

Lily  Chilcott,  held  tightly  by  her  uncle's  strong 
arm. 

"David  is  quite  silly  about  children,"  said 
Miss  Clara,  who  spoke  habitually  in  the  voice  of  a 
reproving  schoolmistress,  "Look  at  him  down 
there  among  those  nasty,  shiny,  slippery  rocks. 
He  will  certainly  let  Lily  get  wet  and  ruin  her 
frock.    I  think  I  will  call  her  back." 

"You  may  call  till  you  are  black  in  the  face," 
said  Mrs.  Rait,  jovially,  "but  you  will  never  get 
them  to  hear  you.    The  wind  is  blowing  inland." 

"They  might  see  me,"  said  the  persevering 
aunt;  and  she  waved  her  large  arms  authorita- 
tively, executing  strange  antics  on  the  edge  of  the 
cliff. 

"I  wish  she  would  fall  over,"  growled  Lord 
John  sotto  voce  to  Lady  Grace,  who  had  discovered 
a  square  yard  of  shade  beneath  a  furze  bush,  and 
was  politely  sharing  it  with  him. 

"So  do  I,"  said  Lady  Grace,  with  tmusual 
animation.  "Does  she  ever  leave  any  one 
alone?" 

"Never,  so  far  as  I  can  see.    She  is  a  perpetual 


94  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

joy  to  me.  I  shall  feel  quite  lonely  without  her 
when  I  get  back  to  town." 

"Take  her  with  you."  suggested  Lady  Grace. 

"One  would  never  have  a  dull  moment,"  he 
said,  tipping  his  straw  hat  over  his  face.  "Listen 
to  her.    She's  off  again." 

"I  really  think,  Catherine,  that  Philippa  is 
rather  old  to  take  her  shoes  and  stockings  off  and 
paddle,"  Miss  Chilcott  was  saying,  in  a  shocked 
voice. 

"I  hope  she  won't  catch  cold,"  was  Catherine's 
only  reply. 

"It  is  not  that  I  was  thinking  of,"  said  Clara, 
unaware  of  Lord  John's  delighted  chuckle.  "It  is 
all  very  well  for  quite  little  children ;  but  I  think 
even  Lily  is  getting  rather  old,-  -and  Philippa! 
Why  she  is  nearly  as  tall  as  I  am.  There!  I  am 
certain  that  David  saw  me  then."  She  redoubled 
her  gesticulations.  "How  tiresome  he  is;  he  is 
turning  Lily  round  and  making  them  both  look 
out  to  sea.  That  is  just  like  David.  I  suppose 
he  is  afraid  that  we  want  him  to  make  himself 
useful  unpacking  the  lunch." 

"There  are  plenty  of  us  to  do  that,  for  we  have 
only  one  basket  with  us,  and  I  believe  that  is  full  of 
crockery,"  said  Mr.  Rait.  "However,  lunch  would 
be  no  use  without  liquor,  and  Augusta  is  bringing 
the  wine-hampers  and  the  rest  of  the  things." 

"She  must  surely  be  due.  We  have  been  here 
two  hours,"  said  a  discontented  voice. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  95 

"She  is  overdue.  We  calculated  that  by  sending 
the  carriage  over  night  to  Morecot,  and  catch- 
ing the  ten  o'clock  train  from  Ilverton  this  morn- 
ing, she  would  be  here  only  an  hour  later  than 
we  were,"  cried  Mr.  Rait,  who  had  planned  the 
whole  expedition,  provided  two  motors  to  convey 
the  majority  of  the  party,  and  was  now  under 
the  impression  that  they  were  all  thoroughly 
enjoying  themselves. 

"I  shall  mutiny  if  this  patch  of  shade  gets 
any  smaller.  I  see  signs  of  its  shrinking,"  growled 
Lord  John.  "Why  should  we  get  sunstroke  to 
please  Rait?" 

"I  can't  think  why,"  said  Lady  Grace,  calmly. 
"He  is  the  kind  of  man  who  always  contrives  to 
do  things  with  the  maximum  of  discomfort." 

"He  has  been  asking  me  to  go  and  stay  with 
him  in  the  North.  He  assures  me  they  often  take 
this  sort  of  trip  there,"  said  Lord  John,  grimly. 
"I  could  hardly  disguise  my  pleasure  at  the 
proposal." 

"He  has  asked  me,  and  I  am  going." 

"Not  really!" 

"I  would  stay  with  my  own  washerwoman  if 
she  lived  in  the  country  and  asked  me — to  save 
the  expense  of  my  flat.  Every  little  helps," 
said  Lady  Grace,  laconically.  "You  know  how  I 
loathe  London." 

' '  Every  one  does  in  theory,  but  in  practice  one 
can't  keep  away  from  it." 


96  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"I  keep  away  from  it  nine  months  of  the  year, 
but  I  couldn't  if  I  sorted  out  my  invitations  too 
carefully,"  said  Lady  Grace. 

"Here  is  Thomas.  Bless  me!  I  hope  there 
hasn't  been  an  accident,"  said  Miss  Dulcinea,  in 
alarmed  tones. 

But  the  servant  was  only  charged  with  a  mes- 
sage to  say  her  ladyship  thought  the  cliffs  would 
be  too  hot,  and  would  the  party  kindly  join  her 
in  the  shade  of  the  rocks  on  the  beach  below, 
where  lunch  was  being  laid  ? 

"The  first  sensible  suggestion  that  has  yet  been 
made,"  said  Lord  John,  rising  with  great  alacrity. 

"But  this  was  so  convenient  for  the  motors. 
There  is  only  a  footway  down  the  rocks,"  expostu- 
lated the  disappointed  Mr.  Rait. 

"There  is  a  road  round,  sir,  which  joins  the  one 
her  ladyship  took  from  Morecot." 

"It  must  be  a  deuce  of  a  way  round — and  a 
very  bad  road." 

But  the  rest  of  the  party  unconcernedly  left 
Mr.  Rait  to  settle  the  question  of  servants  and 
motors  as  best  he  could. 

"One  expects  to  be  either  grilled,  or  frozen, 
or  drenched  to  the  skin  at  a  picnic,"  said  Lord 
John,  assisting  his  neighbour  to  rise;  "but  why 
one  should  pretend  to  enjoy  it,  I  don't  know." 

"Well,  you  needn't  pretend  to  enjoy  it  with 
me,"  said  Lady  Grace. 

Miss  Dulcinea  stumbled  down  the  steep  path- 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  97 

way  aided  by  Catherine  and  the  stalwart  Blanche ; 
and  Clara  tripped  behind,  consoling  herself  with 
the  reflection  that  she  could  now  rescue  Lily 
from  the  evil  influence  of  her  Uncle  David. 

They  found  Augusta  enthroned,  in  the  utmost 
coolness  and  comfort,  upon  the  dry  bed  of  sand 
and  rocks  in  the  deep  shadow  of  the  cliffs,  issuing 
calm  directions  to  flushed  and  heated  footmen, 
who  were  spreading  forth  a  banquet  of  cold  quail 
and  salmon  and  cutlets  and  a  variety  of  chaud- 
froids,  among  crystal  jugs  of  iced  champagne  and 
cider  and  claret  cup,  and  bowls  of  salad  and 
strawberries  and  frozen  cream. 

Lord  John  flew  to  her  side,  and  congratulated 
her  with  the  warmth  of  sincerity  upon  her  talent 
for  organisation,  drawing  a  vivid  picture  of  the 
discomfort  from  which  she  had  rescued  her  guests. 

"When  I  heard  Bob  talking  last  night  of  the 
fine  camping  ground  on  the  top  of  the  cliffs  I 
made  up  my  mind  it  would  be  a  glaring  exposed 
place,  quite  unfit  for  luncheon,"  said  Augusta, 
with  great  composure.  "But  1  said  nothing, 
because  he  is  always  so  noisy  and  tiresome,  and 
brings  forward  time-tables  and  things,  and  argues 
until  one  is  quite  worn  out;  so  I  just  say  'Yes' 
to  everything  he  suggests,  and  don't  do  it." 

"You  are  really  marvellous,"  said  Lord  John, 
with  cordial  admiration. 

"Of  course,  at  the  last  moment  Lady  Sarah 
didn't  come,"  continued  Augusta,   bestowing   a 


98  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

complacent  smile  upon  Lord  John.  "How  she 
could  ever  have  contemplated  it  at  her  age,  I 
don't  know,  but  she  did.  So  I  came  alone,  as 
Cecil  thought  he  ought  to  stay  with  her;  he  was 
glad  of  the  excuse,  for  he  hates  picnics,  like 
everybody  else.  George  Chilcott  followed  in  his 
dogcart,  and  we  both  felt  quite  sorry  for  you 
racing  along  in  the  dust.  But  Bob  made  Grace 
promise  to  go  with  him." 

She  glanced  reproachfully  at  her  bosom  friend; 
but  Lady  Grace's  eyes  were  turned  away  and  she 
was  looking  thoughtfully  out  to  sea,  where  the 
tall  figures  of  David  Moore  and  George  Chil- 
cott were  outlined  darkly  against  the  dazzling 
glory  of  the  waters,  and  between  them  a  little  light 
form — ^Lily — capering  joyfully  on  the  wet  sands. 

Philippa,  left  alone  in  a  comer  of  the  rocks, 
was  hastily  replacing  her  discarded  shoes  and 
stockings,  and  tying  up  her  rebellious  tresses; 
she  had  just  become  aware  of  the  advent  of 
Augusta  and  the  luncheon.  Presently  she  came 
swiftly  across  the  sands,  and  took  the  coveted 
place  beside  her  idol. 

"Oh,  Cousin  Augusta!  How  beautifully  cool 
and  fresh  you  look !  We  have  had  such  a  heavenly 
time.  But  I'm  afraid  I'm  rather  untidy,"  said 
Philippa,  with  a  hasty  endeavour  to  smooth  her 
splashed  and  sandy  skirt.  "But  do  what  I  would 
I  could  never  look  like  you,  so  what  does  it 
matter?" 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  99 

"Philippa!  What  a  state  you  are  in,"  ex- 
claimed Clara,  as  Miss  Dulcinea  was  deposited, 
panting,  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff,  by  the  tired 
Catherine  and  the  vigorous  Mrs.  Rait.  Really, 
a  girl  of  your  age  should  know  better  than  to  get 
herself  into  such  a  mess." 

"You  should  see  Lily,"  said  Philippa,  mis- 
chievously. "She's  simply  drenched.  No,  no, 
I  don't  mean  really,"  in  alarm.  "Cousin  David 
took  off  her  frock  and  spread  it  in  the  sim  to  dry. 
It's  only  a  little  sea- water." 

"Took  off  her  frock!"  gasped  Clara.  "Do  you 
mean  she  is  now  paddling — in  her  petticoat?'' 

"To  be  sure,  she  is;  but  Cousin  George  doesn't 
mind." 

"Do  leave  them  alone,  Clara,"  said  Catherine's 
gentle  voice,  but  to  no  purpose. 

The  exhausted  but  heroic  aunt  was  already  al- 
most out  of  hearing,  climbing  over  slippery  rocks 
and  toiling  through  heavy  sand  to  reach  the 
delinquent. 

"Here  comes  Clara.  Now  we  shall  catch  it," 
said  honest  George,  apprehensively. 

"My  frock!  My  frock!"  giggled  little  Lily,  but 
her  frail  fingers  grasped  her  uncle's  solid  brown 
hand  convulsively. 

"Come  on,"  said  David.    "We'll  race  her." 

He  picked  up  the  frock,  huddled  it  on  to 
his  small  niece  as  best  he  could,  swung  her 
on  to  his  shoulder,  and  made  for  the  limcheon- 


100  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

party,  who  watched  the  chase  and  its  result 
sympathetically. 

"Give  her  to  me,"  said  Lady  Grace,  "and  put 
her  between  us.  Now  you're  safe,  Lily,  I'll  button 
your  frock,  and  Uncle  David  will  give  you  some 
chicken." 

The  child  looked  up  curiously  into  the  calm 
high-bred  face. 

"It's  rather  wet  underneath,"  she  said,  con- 
fidentially; "but  Aunt  Clara  won't  never  know 
if  you  don't  tell." 

"You  wicked  little  creature,"  said  Lady  Grace, 
and,  moved  by  the  appealing  expression  of  the 
great  black  eyes  and  pale  elfin  face,  she  suddenly 
stooped  and  kissed  Lily. 

"It  can't  hurt  her,  can  it?  It's  only  sea-water," 
she  said,  looking  round  appealingly. 

"Nothing  could  hurt  anybody  in  this  heat," 
said  Augusta,  decidedly. 

Clara  presently  took  her  place  at  the  feast  in  a 
subdued  condition,  very  unlike  the  mood  of  vir- 
tuous indignation  which  had  previously  possessed 
her. 

George,  who  was  annoyed  with  himself  for 
being  afraid  of  his  sister's  reproaches,  had  given 
vent  to  his  annoyance  with  unusual  vigour. 

"I  tell  you  what,  Clara,  if  you  hunt  that  poor 
little  beggar  away  from  David  every  time  they're 
enjoying  themselves  together,  I'll  let  him  take 
her   away    with    him   altogether   as   he    wishes, 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  101 

and  see  if  he  can't  make  her  happier  than 
we  do." 

He  had  not  meant  to  tell  Clara  of  David's 
proposition,  any  more  than  he  meant  to  com- 
ply with  it;  but  he  used  the  threat  that  came 
uppermost. 

"Let  David  take  her  away!"  repeated  Clara, 
stunned. 

"Well,  see  to  it  that  you  leave  them  alone, 
then,"  thundered  George,  and  he  turned  on  his 
heel  and  tramped  heavily  over  the  sand  beside 
his  cowed  and  astonished  relative,  in  time  to  see 
Lady  Grace  stoop  protectingly  over  Lily's  little 
dark  head. 

His  face  softened;  but  towards  his  sister  there 
was  no  relenting,  so  that  Miss  Chilcott,  to  the 
surprise  of  the  culprit,  made  no  comment  upon 
the  audacity  of  Lily's  behaviour,  but  ate  her 
luncheon  in  stony  silence. 

As  soon  as  the  feast  was  over — and  it  was  cer- 
tainly prolonged  almost  unduly — Augusta's  one 
object  was  to  rest  herself  thoroughly  until  it  should 
be  time  for  tea.  Her  ideal  of  a  pleasant  afternoon 
corresponded  so  closely  with  that  of  Lord  John, 
that  they  were  presently  to  be  perceived  dozing 
gently  in  adjacent  comers,  chosen  with  a  view 
to  shelter  from  wind  and  sun. 

The  indefatigable  Mr.  Rait  managed  to  hire  a 
boat,  and,  having  invited  every  one  else  in  turn 
to  go  with  him  in  vain,  w^as  at  length  obliged 


102  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

to  content  himself  with  Clara's  company,  and 
departed  with  chastened  enthusiasm. 

"Has  he  gone?  How  very  restful!"  murmured 
Augusta,  opening  one  eye,  and  closing  it  again. 

Philippa  perceived  that  her  divinity  was  in  no 
mood  for  conversation,  so  she  put  her  dignity  in 
her  pocket,  and  assisted  Lily  and  her  imcle  to  make 
castles  in  the  sand. 

Miss  Dulcinea  looked  on  in  delight  from  her 
distant  perch  among  the  rocks,  with  Catherine 
by  her  side. 

"After  all,  Philippa  is  only  a  child  at  heart," 
she  said.  "She  is  quite  as  happy  as  Lily.  Look 
at  her." 

Catherine  looked,  and  shook  her  head. 

"She  will  not  come  back  from  London  a  child.** 

The  triumph  faded  from  poor  Miss  Dulcinea's 
simple  face,  and  Catherine  repented. 

"Never  mind,  Aimtie.  It  is  natural.  As  they 
say,  I  cannot  keep  her  for  ever,  and  she  looks 
so  bright  and  happy  now — so  different  from  the 
look  she  sometimes  wears  at  home — that  it  is 
clear  the  poor  child  needs  a  little  pleasure  and 
novelty  and  companionship.  I  have  shut  her 
up  too  much.  Perhaps  the  life  at  Shepherd's 
Rest  is  really  too  quiet  for  a  young  thing." 

"Perhaps  it  is,  my  darling,"  said  old  Miss 
Dulcinea.  "I  have  often  thought  how  young 
you  were  when  you  settled  down  there,  and  won- 
dered  whether   it   were   quite    right — or   whole- 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  103 

some — that  you  should  have  hidden  yourself 
away  from  the  world  so  much — all  these  years?" 

Catherine  felt  a  little  pang  at  her  heart.  She 
had  asked  herself  this  question  not  a  few  times 
lately. 

The  faint  misgivings  which  had  assailed  her 
during  the  past  months  of  Philippa's  ever-increas- 
ing unrest  and  discontent  had  resolved  them- 
selves into  a  very  distinct  and  depressing  doubt 
since  David  Moore's  return. 

Had  she  been  morbid  and  cowardly — devoting 
her  thoughts  and  consecrating  her  existence 
rather  to  the  dead  than  to  the  living?  She  ques- 
tioned her  own  motives  and  conduct  sadly  enough. 
Was  it  too  late  to  start  afresh — to  reconstruct 
her  life — to  begin  again  ? 

Not  for  George,  it  seemed,  because  he  was  a 
man,  and  must  live  a  man's  life  and  do  a  man's 
work.  Not  for  David — ^whose  future  held  a 
thousand  possibilities ;  whose  career,  in  a  manner, 
was  but  just  begun.  But  for  her — though  she 
was,  as  she  somewhat  wistfully  reflected,  in 
actual  years  younger  than  either  of  these  two — 
oh,  surely,  for  her  it  was  too  late.  What  could 
be  left  for  her  but  to  go  quietly  on  to  the  end  in 
the  little  round  of  duties  she  had  created  for  her- 
self? She  had  put  in  order  and  beautified  a  comer, 
though  but  an  infinitesimal  comer,  of  the  universe, 
and  was  attached  to  it  by  a  thousand  threads  of 
habit,  responsibility,  and  association.     She  was 


104  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

the  humble  Providence  of  a  few  humble  lives. 
Had  she  indeed  been  useless  in  her  generation? 
Her  heart — her  consciousness  of  pure  intention — 
cried  out  no;  but  her  judgment  faltered  and 
hesitated. 

Turning  in  her  perplexity  to  look  at  Miss 
Dulcinea,  the  question  lost  itself  in  a  smile,  for 
the  soft  wrinkled  eyelids  had  closed  over  the  ten- 
der faded  blue  eyes,  and  her  aunt  was  slumbering 
peacefiilly,  nodding  forward  as  she  sat. 

No  problems  long  disturbed  Miss  Dulcinea's 
serene  mind,  calm  with  the  repose  of  settled 
convictions. 

Catherine  rose  noiselessly  and  moved  away, 
climbing  cautiously  over  the  rocks  until  she 
reached  the  firm  stretch  of  sand  beyond. 

The  tide  was  now  out  so  far  that  the  sea  looked 
a  great  way  off. 

She  wandered  down  to  the  edge  of  the  glittering 
water,  and  stood  shading  her  brow  with  her 
hand,  looking  across  it  into  the  mist  of  distance, 
until  her  eyes  were  dazzled.  Then  she  walked 
quietly  along  the  strip  of  wet  sand  next  the  sea. 

The  sea  always  reminded  her  of  her  long  child- 
hood at  Calais;  and  the  girl  she  had  been  then 
was  much  more  real  in  Catherine's  consciousness 
than  the  woman  she  was  now;  for  she  was  of 
those  whose  hearts  remain  yotmg,  and  she  was 
often  aware  of  a  half -amused,  half -shamed  sensa- 
tion of  alarm  lest  it  might  be  some  day  discovered 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  105 

— in  spite  of  her  middle-aged  face  and  figure — 
that  she  had  never  really  grown  up  at  all. 

As  in  a  vision  she  saw  the  girl  she  had  once 
been — a  maiden  with  fresh  complexion,  short 
curly  hair,  and  bright  eyes,  shockingly  dressed 
in  a  faded  red  velvet  cap  and  a  brown  ulster 
turned  green  with  age — ^hurrying  up  and  down 
the  deserted  sands  at  Calais,  in  the  chill  March 
wind,  crying  her  heart  out  because  she  was  in 
love  and  desolate,  without  hope,  without  friends. 
Poor  little  thing !  Catherine  looked  back  upon  her 
with  some  pity  and  more  awe.  She  had  been  so 
very  young,  so  very  innocent,  so  very  certain  that 
the  happiness  of  her  whole  life  was  bound  up  in 
that  pure  and  childish  passion  for  the  man  she  had 
seen  but  once,  and  knew  not  at  all.  So  ready — ■ 
wilfully,  woefuUy  ready — to  sacrifice  anything — 
to  lay  down  her  life  for  a  dream — a  fancy.  Poor 
little  Catherine!  And  after  all  the  wildest  of  her 
hopes  had  come  to  pass;  she  had  married  the 
hero.  .  .  . 

Now  it  was  no  longer  the  girl  Catherine  Carey — 
the  little  nobody  from  Calais — who  was  walking 
by  the  edge  of  the  sea,  but  Catherine  Adelstane, 
a  woman  alone,  in  a  grave  grey  gown  that  some- 
how typified  her  quiet  existence.  A  woman  not 
given  to  weeping,  nor  to  wild  and  frensied  wishes ; 
but  possessed  of  a  nature  tranquillised  and  con- 
tented by  the  passing  of  peaceful  years.  A  woman 
who  was  even — the  colour  rose    in  Catherine's 


106  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

soft  face,  as  though  she  were  half -ashamed  of  the 
fact  she  could  not  deny — ^lighthearted,  were  it 
not  for  the  one  geat  anxiety  that  beset  her. 

A  woman  who  only  asked — it  is  the  pathetic 
prayer  of  middle-age — to  be  allowed  to  work  in 
peace  a  little  while  longer  for  the  happiness  of 
others.  This  was  what  she  had  become.  A 
resigned  and  gentle  Catherine,  but  yet  a  Catherine 
from  whose  wistful  eyes  the  laugh  was  never  very 
far  distant  after  all. 

When  Lord  John  Trelleck  learnt  that  the  pair 
of  grey  horses  would  take  nearly  three  hours  to 
make  the  journey  Jiome  to  Welwysbere,  he  elected 
to  return  thither  by  Mr.  Ralt's  motor,  which 
would  cover  the  distance  in  about  forty  minutes; 
and  since  Lady  Grace  accepted  George  Chilcott's 
invitation  to  be  driven  home  in  his  dogcart  with 
little  Lily,  Augusta  invited  Catherine  to  occupy 
the  vacant  seat  in  the  barouche. 

For  the  first  few  miles  of  their  journey  the  road 
skirted  the  sea,  and  the  great  rolling  hillocks  of 
sands,  with  the  yellow  gorse  blazing  in  the  low 
simshine;  then  they  left  the  sea  behind,  and  the 
wind-tossed  pines  and  open  downs  of  coarse  grass 
changed  to  the  familiar  stunted  oak  and  Devon 
hedgerow;  the  soil  grew  rich  and  red;  the  long 
shadows  fell  from  the  elms  across  the  fine  green 
turf  of  the  well-stocked  meadows;  the  brown 
roofs  and  white  walls  of  prosperous  homesteads 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  107 

rose  amid  armies  of  thatched  ricks  and  stacks 
and  leafy  orchards.  They  drove  over  miles  of 
shaded  highways,  and  through  sunken  lanes,  in 
the  cool  and  pleasant  twilight  of  the  long  June 
day. 

"I  have  wanted  to  talk  to  you  for  ages,  Cather- 
ine,'* said  Augusta,  vaguely,  "but  you  know  how 
we  are  always  interrupted.  It  is  very  good  of 
you  to  let  Philippa  come  with  us  to  town.  Cecil 
is  delighted  to  have  her,  and  so  am  I.  You  know 
we  are  quite  as  fond  of  her  as  if  she  had  been  our 
own." 

"You  are  very  kind  to  her,"  said  Catherine. 

* '  And  you  are  sure  you  like  her  to  come  ? ' '  Au- 
gusta asked. 

"I  can't  quite  say  that,  Augusta.  I  have  never 
parted  with  her  before,  and  she  is  all  I  have  in 
the  world;  but  she  wishes  to  go,  and — and  you 
will  take  care  of  her?"  Catherine's  voice  grew 
appealing. 

"Of  course  I  will  take  care  of  her,"  said  Augusta, 
with  dignity,  "and  it's  all  very  well  for  you  to 
talk  of  her  being  all  you  have  in  the  world,  but 
look  at  me,  with  neither  chick  nor  child.  I 
shouldn't  talk  of  being  lonely  if  I  had  a  pretty 
daughter,  I  can  tell  you,  though  naturally  in  my 
position  I  would  rather  have  a  son.  Of  course 
you  will  say  I  have  Cecil."  Augusta  had  a  habit 
which  exasperated  Catherine  of  attributing  un- 
likely remarks  to  her,  and  then    pointing     out 


108  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

their  futility.  "But,  after  all,  what  is  a  man? 
Devoted  as  we  have  always  been,  I  have  never 
even  pretended  that  Cecil  understood  me.  I 
don't  think  you  ought  to  grudge  Philippa  to  me 
for  a  few  weeks,  Catherine,  I  don't  indeed." 

"Perhaps  not,"  said  Catherine. 

"And  when  you  own  yourself  she  wishes  it  so 
much.  I  can't  help  being  touched  at  her  fondness 
for  me,"  said  Augusta.  "It  is  quite  pathetic 
the  way  she  follows  me  about!  I  don't  know  what 
she  sees  in  me,  I'm  sure." 

Catherine  was  sorely  tempted  to  reply  that  she 
did  not  know  either,  but  she  refrained,  and  merely 
observed : 

"She  is  at  the  age  when  girls  take  violent  fan- 
cies to  people.  She  has  certainly  taken  a  violent 
fancy  to  you." 

"Well,  I  can  tell  you  it  is  very  much  to  her 
advantage  if  she  has,"  said  Augusta,  pompously. 
"Though  I  should  have  looked  upon  her,  in  any 
case,  being  Cecil's  heiress,  as  she  is,  like  a  child 
of  my  own.  But  I  naturally  take  more  interest 
in  a  girl  who  really,  I  may  say,  almost  worships 
me,"  said  Augusta,  with  modest  triumph,  "than 
I  should  to  another.  And  you  know,  Catherine, 
as  I  have  told  you  before,  I  mean  to  leave 
my  money  to  Philippa  if  she  does  inherit  the 
Abbey." 

"It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  say  so,  Augusta, 
but  please  do  not  talk  of  such  things.     Philippa 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  109 

will  have  plenty,  more  than  is  good  for  her,  I  am 
afraid." 

"Indeed,  she  won't;  the  Abbey  is  a  frightfully 
expensive  place  to  keep  up.  I  am  always  urging 
Cecil  to  let  it;  but  you  know  how  obstinate  he 
is.  If  she  is  to  live  there  as  he  wishes,  she  will 
need  far  more  money  than  he  can  leave  her.  And 
I  quite  disagree  with  Blanche,  who  is  all  for 
hunting  out  poor  relations  of  papa's  whom  we 
have  never  even  heard  of,  to  inherit  her  money, 
and  wants  me  to  do  the  same." 

"It  would  surely  be  just." 

"Not  at  all.  Why  should  it  be  just?  Poor 
dear  papa  made  his  own  money,  and  his  family 
had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I  told  Blanche  that 
I  meant  to  make  a  new  will  directly  I  went  back 
to  town  and  leave  everything  to  Philippa,  and 
she  was  as  much  annoyed  as  if  she  expected  to 
outlive  me  and  inherit  my  money  herself.  People 
are  such  dogs  in  the  manger.  As  I  told  her,  it  is 
far  more  likely  to  be  the  other  way  about,  racing 
about  in  motors  all  over  Europe  as  she  does. 
Every  day  I  expect  to  hear  she  has  been  killed, 
or  at  least  maimed  for  life,"  said  Augusta,  with 
perfect  calm. 

'  *  I  hope  you  will  not  tell  Philippa  of  your  inten- 
tions: a  thousand  things  might  happen  to  make 
you  change  your  mind.  Though  I  am  none  the 
less  grateful  to  you  for  the  kind  thought." 

"I  haven't  exactly  told   her,"  said  Augusta, 


110  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

rather  guiltily.  "I  may  have  let  slip  that  she 
will  get  my  pearls  one  of  these  days;  perhaps  I 
shall  give  her  some  when  she  marries.  And  that 
reminds  me,  Catherine,  that  you  need  not  be  afraid 
I  shall  let  her  meet  the  wrong  kind  of  man." 

"I  hope  you  will  not  let  her  meet  any  men  at 
all,"  cried  Catherine,  "  she  is  only  a  child.  And 
you  promised  you  would  not  let  her  be  considered 
as  come  out  in  any  way." 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Augusta.  "Still,  if  she 
sees  any  one,  it  is  important,  even  at  sixteen, 
that  they  should  be  the  right  people.  I  am  not 
like  Blanche,  who  cares  nothing  at  all  who  people 
are,  so  long  as  she  likes  them.  I  say  what  does  it 
matter  if  one  likes  them  or  not  so  long  as  they  are 
all  right?  I  shall  get  up  boy  and  girl  parties  for 
Philippa,  and  I  have  thought  of  three  boys  who 
would  be  excellent  matches  for  her,  if  they  should 
happen — one  never  can  tell,  you  know — and  she 
is  very  pretty." 

"Dear  Augusta,  pray  do  not  put  such  things  into 
her  head  or  into  mine,  or  you  will  frighten  me  out 
of  letting  her  go  after  all,"  cried  Catherine  in 
distress.  "It  will  be  quite  excitement  enough  for 
Philippa  to  be  taken  to  the  Opera,  or  a  theatre  or 
two,  and  to  drive  in  the  Park  with  you.  The  rest  of 
her  time  she  will  be  quite  happy  with  Roper,  since 
you  are  so  kind  as  to  let  me  send  Roper  with  her." 

"But  I  hope  you  will  trust  me  to  get  her  clothes," 
said  Augusta.    "Roper  must  be  quite  out  of  date. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  111 

I  can  assure  you,"  earnestly,  "I  will  take  as  much 
pains  to  dress  her  as  I  do  myself." 

Catherine's  attention  wandered  during  the 
long  monologue  on  dress  which  ensued.  She 
realised  with  a  sudden  pang  that  she  was  actually 
giving  up  the  care  of  her  child  for  the  moment 
to  Augusta,  and  felt  much  inclined  to  put  a 
sudden  end  to  poor  Lady  Adelstane's  babble  by 
informing  her  that  she  had  changed  her  mind, 
and  did  not  intend  to  let  Philippa  go  after  all. 
What,  after  all,  was  the  advice  of  Lady  Sarah 
or  of  David  Moore  to  her,  that  she  must  needs 
follow  it?  Ah,  if  it  were  only  Lady  Sarah  and 
David  Moore  whom  she  had  to  consider,  how 
quickly  would  her  decision  have  been  taken! 

But  there  was  Philippa. 

Philippa,  who  was  no  longer  a  child,  but  a 
most  relentless  youthful  judge:  a  merciless  detec- 
tor of  weakness  and  vacillation,  and  full  of  a  griev- 
ance which  was  not,  alas!  quite  an  unreasonable 
grievance ;  of  discontent  and  impatience  with  her 
surroundings,  and  the  isolation  which  Catherine 
had  found  so  restful  and  pleasant. 

Perhaps  it  was  the  secret  guilty  conviction  that 
her  child  had  some  reason  on  her  side,  no  less  than 
a  lack  of  moral  courage  to  disappoint  her,  that  kept 
Catherine  silent;  w^hilst  Augusta,  quite  imaware 
that  she  was  monopolising  the  conversation,  chat- 
tered happily  on  concerning  her  plans  for  Philippa's 
entertainment  until  the  drive  came  to  an  end. 


CHAPTER  VII 

David  Moore,  returning  home  to  England  at 
the  very  moment  of  the  year  when  the  beauty 
of  his  native  country  was  at  its  height,  could 
not  but  pay  it  the  tribute  of  a  regretful  sigh 
now  and  then  when  he  reflected  upon  the  long 
years  of  his  exile. 

The  weather  during  his  stay  at  Bridescombe 
happened  to  be  the  perfection  of  early  June 
weather.  Every  morning  he  woke  to  find  the 
Devonshire  valley  bathed  in  haze  of  early  morning 
sunshine,  and  the  lawn  under  his  window  glitter- 
ing with  dew,  beneath  old  elm-trees  thickly 
clothed  with  green,  and  mighty  oaks  with  scanty 
foliage  yet  freshly  golden. 

A  splendid  variety  of  English  timber  in  near 
perfection  and  distant  outline  studded  the  grounds 
of  Bridescombe  and  crowned  the  slopes  of  the 
Welwysbere  hills.  An  opening  in  the  shrubberies 
showed  stretches  of  yellow  meadow  rich  with  the 
fulfilment  of  the  season's  growth.  Closer  at  hand 
a  gravel  path  wound  through  well-kept  shrubs 
to  the  borders  of  a  little  lake,  thickly  fringed 
with  lily  leaves,  and  reflecting  in  its  black  depths 

xia 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  113 

the  crimson  of  a  copper  beech  and  the  trembling 
foliage  of  a  tall  sentinel  poplar. 

Bridescombe,  if  less  stately  than  Welwysbere 
Abbey,  was  yet  the  very  ideal  of  a  pleasant 
country  house  without,  though  within  the  ar- 
rangements left  much  to  be  desired. 

David  decided  that  George  Chilcott  was  in 
some  respects  to  be  envied,  and  thought  of  him- 
self, sadly,  as  a  lonely  man  without  home  or 
family;  he  was  acutely  reminiscent,  in  this  coun- 
try quiet,  of  his  years  of  exile,  thinking  of  oppor- 
tunities missed,  of  good  work  unrecognised,  of 
risks  run  and  hardships  faced  to  no  purpose, 
of  gallant  lives  laid  down  in  vain.  Every  sol- 
dier who  has  had  a  fair  share  of  campaigning 
must  be  subject  to  such  melancholy  retrospective 
moods,  unless  indeed  he  has  been  exceptionally 
lucky,  or  is  exceptionally  selfish.  David  was 
neither  the  one  nor  the  other.  He  had  striven 
hard  and  accomplished  brilliant  work  during  his 
own  varied  career;  he  had  made  some  mistakes 
and  accepted  much  suffering  in  the  matter-of-fact 
way  peculiar  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  race;  but  his 
exceptional  ability,  aided  by  an  attractive  and 
sympathetic  personality,  had  obtained  a  fair 
share  of  recognition  and  reward. 

Squire  George  looked  at  his  brother-in-law  and 
sighed  in  his  turn.  Here  was  David,  his  junior,  a 
distinguished  soldier,  a  lieutenant-colonel  and  a 
V.C,   resigning   the   command   of    his  regiment 


114  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

in  the  Orange  River  Colony  only  to  accept  an 
appointment  on  the  General  Staff  at  the  War 
Office.  George,  too,  had  loved  soldiering,  but  he 
had  sent  in  his  papers  on  obtaining  his  company, 
and  settled  down,  as  he  put  it  dismally  to  himself, 
to  a  fat  farmer's  life,  on  an  estate  too  small  to 
afford  him  full  occupation — a  life  which  appeared 
to  be  one  of  ease  and  comfort,  though  it  was  in 
reality  filled  with  petty  cares  and  irritating  do- 
mestic worry. 

He  looked  back  to  the  years  of  his  brief  married 
life  with  heavy  regret  for  the  peace  and  happiness 
that  had  filled  them.  Delia's  nature  had  been 
bright  and  joyous  and  her  interests  many  and 
varied.  The  minor  troubles  of  life  had  been  dis- 
persed by  her  glad  energy,  and  lightened  by  her 
caresses  and  consolation.  Now  they  loomed 
largely  upon  him,  aggravated  by  constant  com- 
plaints from  his  mother  and  sister,  who  spared 
no  opportunity  of  fault-finding  and  who  would 
have  been  more  caustic  still,  save  that  they  were 
a  little  afraid  of  George,  and  believed  it  their 
duty  to  humour  him  to  a  certain  extent.  Thus, 
when  Clara  had  unwittingly  goaded  him  to 
extremity,  she  would  endure  the  angry  retort  she 
had  elicited  with  Christian  resignation  and 
remark  to  her  mother,  "We  must  remember  that 
poor  George  is  a  widower,"  or  "I  dare  say  he  was 
thinking  of  poor  Delia,"  with  tender  forbearance; 
which  was  real  and  not  assumed,  for  Clara  was  a 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  115 

conscientious  and  well-meaning  person,  who  lived 
but  to  fulfil  the  behests  of  her  elderly  but  strong- 
minded  parent. 

His  boy's  infancy  had  been  only  a  time  of 
delight  to  poor  George,  who  heard  much  of  the 
manifold  perfections  of  his  offspring  from  its 
adoring  mother,  and  believed  in  most  of  them; 
but  it  appeared  to  him  now  that  his  little  girl's 
childhood  was  only  a  record  of  squabbles  and 
punishments.  Little  Lily's  delinquencies  were 
reported  to  him  as  though  they  had  been  crimes, 
and  he  was  led  to  believe  her  an  unusually  naughty 
child,  though  she  never  showed  this  side  of  her 
character  to  him — an  abstention  which,  according 
to  her  aunt  and  grandmother,  clearly  proved  the 
exceeding  artfulness  of  her  disposition. 

She  looked  at  George,  with  her  mother's  great 
black  eyes  shining,  full  of  silent  meaning,  from 
her  small  pale  face;  for  though  she  lived  in  the 
country  and  out  of  doors,  and  drank  new  warm 
milk  from  the  cow,  and  was  fed  upon  porridge, 
little  Lily  remained  unaccountably  thin,  and 
wizened,  and  sallow,  the  exact  opposite  of  her 
well-grown,  healthy,  rosy  brother,  who  was  six 
years  her  senior.  She  was  remarkably  precocious 
— another  grievance  to  her  relatives,  who  were 
obliged  to  lock  up  books  and  newspapers  lest 
she  should  imbibe  their  contents  unobserved. 

"She  is  not  to  be  trusted,"  said  Clara  Chilcott. 

"She  is  Delia  over  again,"  said  old  Mrs.  Chil- 


116  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

cott;  and  it  is  to  be  feared  that  in  these  words 
she  summed  up  Lily's  failure  to  gain  her  relatives' 
approbation.  They  did  not  mean  to  be  imkind, 
but  merely  strove  in  vain  to  change  her  nature 
into  one  more  nearly  resembling  their  own. 

Old  Mrs.  Chilcott  was  absolute  in  her  sway 
over  her  son's  household,  and  George  seldom 
interfered  with  her,  partly  because  he  had  a 
natural  respect  for  his  mother's  experience  and 
authority,  and  partly  because  he  desired  above 
aU  things  to  keep  the  peace. 

Lily  was  the  small  human  sacrifice  unwittingly 
offered  up  to  gain  this  end,  and  after  all  the  end 
was  not  gained.  For  the  victories  obtained  in  the 
unequal  battle  were  not  complete  until  they 
had  been  retailed  to  the  father  of  the  rebel, 
who  was  exhorted  that  it  was  his  duty  to 
denoimce  and  not  to  pity  the  wretched  little 
offender. 

"I  believe  the  poor  little  kid  is  a  regular  spitfire. 
Nobody  can  do  anything  with  her.  She's  had 
these  daily  rows  over  her  lessons  ever  since  she 
was  four  years  old,"  said  George,  in  weary,  de- 
jected tones  to  David;  thus  apologising  for  the 
low  sobbing  and  the  steady  rumble  of  sermonis- 
ing that  issued  from  the  dining-room,  where  daily 
after  breakfast  was  Clara  secluded  for  two  miser- 
able hours  with  her  reluctant  pupil. 

David  listened  and  grew  wrathful. 

"Why  don't  you  teach  her  yourself?'* 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  117 

"I — good  Lord!  It's  not  in  my  line,"  said 
George,  staring. 

"It's  not  in  Clara's  line  either,"  said  David, 
shortly. 

"My  mother  tried  for  some  time,  and  said  it 
made  her  quite  ill.  I  suppose  Lily  must  do  lessons 
with  some  one,"  said  George,  helplessly. 

David  was  silent,  but  his  silence  was  fraught 
with  meaning. 

The  next  day  he  caught  Lily  and  held  her,  as 
she  dashed  past  him  in  the  hall  with  red  eyes, 
carrying  her  slate. 

"Let  me  go,  Uncle  David!" 

"I  won't — I  want  you,  Lily." 

"Let  her  go,  please,  David,"  said  Clara's 
authoritative  voice.  "She  is  being  sent  to  her 
room." 

"Is  she?  What  for?"  said  David.  His  glance 
at  his  cousin  Clara  was  more  fiery  than  he  knew, 
and  Clara  quailed. 

"Put  me  down.  Uncle  David.  I'm  not  a  baby, 
and  I  don't  want  to  be  carried,"  gasped  the  culprit, 
between  sobs  and  fright. 

"As  your  uncle  seems  to  think  you  may  be 
punished  unjustly,  Lily,"  said  Clara,  swelling  with 
offended  dignity,  "you  can  show  him  your  slate, 
and  tell  him  what  you  have  done." 

Lily  hesitated,  then  a  gleam  of  alarmed  amuse- 
ment stole  into  her  long-lashed  eyes,  still  wet 
with  tears.     She  stood  on  one  leg,  turned   her 


118  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

right  foot  round  her  left  ankle,  and  held  out  the 
slate. 

"What  is  this?" 

"Aunt  Clara  wrote  ''Lily  has  not  been  good 
to-day''  on  my  slate,  and  told  me  to  take  it  to 
Granny;   and — and  I  rubbed  out  the  not" 

"It  was  the  deceit  I  thought  most  of,"  said 
Clara,  impressively.  "As  she  was  going  away, 
pretending  obedience,  a  sudden  thought  struck 
me,  for  I  happened  to  see  her  wet  finger,  and  I 
insisted  on  looking  at  the  slate.  She  was  hop- 
ing her  grandmamma  would  praise  her  for  being 
good  on  false  pretences," 

"I  wasn't,"  said  Lily,  "and  grandmamma  never 
praises  me." 

"What  did  you  do  it  for?" 

Lily  hung  her  head. 

"For  fun." 

"You  said  you  were  sorry,  and  now  you  are 
smiling,  Lily.  I  don't  believe  you  know  the 
meaning  of  repentance." 

"I  do,"  sobbed  Lily. 

"What  is  it  then?"  said  the  inexorable  aunt. 

"Being  sorry  you've  done  something  pleasant, 
but  not  till  after  you've  done  it,"  said  the 
culprit. 

Colonel  Moore  was  a  disciplinarian,  and  had 
no  idea  of  calling  its  elder's  authority  in  question 
in  the  presence  of  a  child.  He  said  in  a  very 
gentle  tone: 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  119 

"You  should  not  have  done  it,  Lily,"  and 
kissed  her. 

"If  you  are  going  to  pet  her  whenever  she  is 
naughty,  David,"  said  Clara,  as  Lily  ran  upstairs, 
"I  shall  have  to  give  up  teaching  her  altogether." 

"I  think  it  would  be  the  best  plan,"  said  David, 
and  he  walked  away  without  looking  at  her. 

Clara  complained  bitterly  to  her  brother  and 
received  scant  sympathy. 

"Why  should  you  make  the  poor  little  beggar 
her  own  executioner?"  he  growled.  "You  know 
what  a  row  she'd  have  got  into  when  my  mother 
read  your  message.  Small  blame  to  her  if  she 
tried  to  outwit  you.  I  don't  believe  you  under- 
stand her  a  bit,  Clara." 

"It's  you  who  are  taken  in.  I  am  sorry  to  say 
it  of  her,  George,  but  Lily  is  one  of  those  artful 
little  girls  who  know  how  to  get  round  gentlemen." 

"All  the  better  for  her,"  said  George,  crossly. 

Clara  was  about  to  retort,  but  she  remembered 
in  time  that  George  was  a  widower,  and  left  the 
room  with  an  expression  of  angelic  patience. 

The  threatened  storm  burst  the  day  after  the 
seaside  picnic,  when  Clara  entered  the  study, 
where  her  brother  and  David  were  placidly  smok- 
ing, with  the  ominous  words : 

"George,  mamma  says — oh,  I  beg  your  pardon, 
David,  I  did  not  see  you  were  there.  If  you 
please,  George,  I  should  like  to  speak  to  you." 

"What's  the  matter?"   said  the    imfortunate 


120  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

squire,  scenting  more  domestic  embroilments. 
"Go  on,  Clara,  don't  make  mysteries." 

"I  am  far  from  wishing  to  make  mysteries, 
George.  In  fact,  perhaps,  as  it  is  to  do  with 
Lily,  it  is  as  well  that  David  should  hear  the 
worst." 

David  looked  up  quickly,  but  George,  being 
more  accustomed  to  his  sister's  portentous  meth- 
ods of  dealing  with  trifles,  smoked  on  without 
moving. 

"Lily's  diary  has  been  found,  George." 

"I  didn't  know  it  was  lost." 

"It  was  not  lost.  Lily  had  hidden  it.  I  asked 
her  for  it  this  morning,  and  she  pretended  she 
could  not  find  it,  so  mamma  had  the  day-nursery 
turned  out  thoroughly,  and  it  was  found  carefully 
tucked  away  at  the  very  bottom  of  her  play-box." 

"Well?" 

"Mamma  says  that  she  could  not  have  be- 
lieved it  possible,  unless  she  had  read  it  with  her 
own  eyes,  that  a  girl  of  ten  years  old  could  have 
written  such  things." 

"What  did  she  want  to  read  it  for?" 

"She  read  it  as  a  duty.  And  a  most  unpleas- 
ant duty  it  turned  out  to  be." 

' '  Have  you  read  it,  too  ? ' ' 

"I  have  glanced  at  it.  I  have  not  yet  had 
time  to  read  it  all,"  said  the  conscientious  Clara. 
"I  am  bound  to  tell  you,  George,  that  what  I 
did  read  shocked  me  excessively.    Mamma  says 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  121 

that  in  justice  to  her  and  to  me  she  thinks  you 
ought  to  look  at  it  yourself,  if  only  to  give  you 
a  clearer  insight  into  Lily's  character." 

"I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  reading  other  people's 
private  diaries." 

"It  is  absurd  to  call  Lily  a  person;  she  is  only 
a  child." 

"Where  is  she?" 

"In  mamma's  room.  Mamma  has  been  reading 
bits  of  the  journal  to  her  that  she  may  hear  how 
shocking  they  sound  out  loud." 

"Go  and  fetch  Lily  here,  and  the  journal  with 
her,"  said  George,  autocratically. 

"I  can't  do  that,  George.  She  wished  you  to 
come  upstairs.  You  must  please  yourself,  of 
course.  I  can  only  tell  her  I  have  delivered  her 
message." 

Miss  Chilcott  left  the  room,  and  George  turned 
to  David  with  a  groan. 

"These  everlasting  scenes " 

"Put  a  stop  to  them." 

"How  can  I?" 

"Any  way  you  choose.  She's  your  child. 
Send  her  to  school  if  you  won't  give  her  to  me." 

"David,  it  goes  against  the  grain  to  send  Delia's 
little  girl  away  from  home." 

"It  would  go  more  against  the  grain  with  me 
to  see  her  bullied  from  morning  till  night." 

"I'll  go  upstairs  and  get  the  journal  and  throw 
the  damned  thing  into  the  fire,  and  there'll  be 


122  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

an  end  of  it,"  said  George,  with  the  sudden  energy 
of  a  weak  man. 

"Don't  do  that,"  said  David  slowly.  "I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  they  were  right,  and  reading 
it  might  make  you  understand  her  better.  Look 
here,  George,  let  me  go  and  get  Lily  and  the  diary 
together,  and  bring  them  down  here.  She'll 
give  me  leave  to  read  it  fast  enough." 

"My  mother  won't  let  you  have  either  one  or 
the  other." 

David  gave  him  a  look.  * '  Won't  she  ? "  he  said, 
and  left  the  room  immediately. 

Old  Mrs.  Chilcott,  in  her  black  gown  and  white 
cap,  sat  in  the  bay  window  of  her  pleasant  morn- 
ing-room, crocheting  a  shawl;  her  thin  fingers 
flew  in  and  out  of  the  scarlet  wool,  her  eyes 
were  bent  on  her  work,  and  her  lips  were  firmly 
compressed. 

In  the  middle  of  the  apartment  was  a  music- 
stool,  and  on  the  music-stool  was  perched  Lily, 
very  round-shouldered  and  heaving  with  sobs, 
as  she  read  aloud  from  a  small  manuscript  book. 
David  perceived  that  it  was  the  obnoxious 
journal,  and  took  it  gently  from  his  niece's 
unresisting  hands  before  he  spoke. 

"Aunt  Lydia,  George  is  very  much  put  out 
about  this  affair,"  he  said.  "I  am  going  to  take 
Lily  down  to  him." 

"I  sent  a  message  to  tell  George  to  come  to  me," 
said  Mrs.  Chilcott. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  123 

"And  I  delivered  the  message,"  said  Clara,  in 
sepulchral  tones. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Clara,"  said  her  mother 
sharply.  "Of  course  you  delivered  it.  Give  me 
the  diary,  David,  I  prefer  to  show  it  to  my  son 
myself." 

David  put  the  diary  in  his  pocket. 

"I'm  sorry.  Aunt  Lydia,  but  you  may  take  it 
I  am  carrying  out  George's  own  wishes.  With 
your  permission  Lily  had  better  come  with  me 
now." 

Mrs.  Chilcott  glared  at  her  nephew  and  David 
returned  the  look  steadily. 

She  knew  that  opposition  was  useless,  and 
said  no  more ;  the  sharp  click  of  her  needles  never 
ceased  for  a  moment. 

Colonel  Moore  led  Lily  downstairs,  and,  entering 
the  study,  closed  the  door. 

She  stood  on  one  leg  in  her  favourite  attitude, 
with  a  miserable  frightened  little  face,  and  twisted 
her  small  fingers  nervously  together. 

Her  father  could  not  bear  to  look  at  her,  so 
he  stared  at  the  carpet,  with  a  very  undecided 
expression  of  countenance,  and  pulled  at  his 
heavy  yellow  moustache. 

Lily  stole  a  glance  at  her  uncle,  who  had 
returned  to  his  arm-chair,  and  something  in  his 
look  made  the  child  spring  across  the  room  to 
him,  with  a  great  sob,  and  hide  her  face  upon  the 
breast  of  his  rough  tweed  coat. 


124  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

David  let  her  have  her  cry  out,  until  he  felt 
the  long-drawn  sobs  dying  away;  then  he  lifted 
a  very  pale  and  woebegone  little  face  from  his 
shoulder,  and,  discarding  the  small  and  grimy 
handkerchief  she  was  clutching  in  one  doll-like 
hand,  he  dried  her  eyes  very  carefully  with  his 
own  large  white  one. 

"Lily,  will  you  let  daddy  and  me  read  the  poor 
little  journal?"  he  whispered,  holding  his  frail 
burden  closely  to  him,  and  brushing  the  elfin 
face  with  his  moustache. 

In  her  relief  and  gratitude  for  his  gentleness 
and  sympathy  Lily  was  only  too  ready  to  say 
yes.  She  consented  eagerly,  caring  little  what 
her  uncle  and  father  might  do,  so  that  they  were 
not  visibly  displeased  with  her.  For  her  quick 
observation  had  shown  her  that  George  Chilcott, 
though  depressed,  did  not  look  angry. 

She  glanced  timidly  from  one  to  the  other  of 
the  arbitrators  of  her  fate,  unaware  that  these 
two  big  men's  hearts  were  melting  with  love 
and  pity,  for  the  dead  woman's  sake,  whose 
legacy  she  was  to  both. 

The  library  was  a  very  large  room,  and  at  the 
further  end  stood  an  immense  sofa,  furnished 
with  soft  square  cushions.  David  picked  her  up, 
carried  her  across  and  deposited  her  among 
them. 

"Curl  up  here  and  go  to  sleep,"  he  said.  "You 
will  be  worn  out  after  so  many  tears." 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  125 

She  laid  her  little  pale  cheek  obediently  on  the 
cushion,  and  closed  her  eyes.  When  she  opened 
them  again  she  saw  her  father  and  uncle  pacing 
up  and  down  the  verandah  outside,  but  she  could 
not  hear  what  they  said,  and  presently,  as  David 
had  expected,  she  fell  asleep  from  sheer  exhaus- 
tion, too  much  spent  with  weeping  to  be  able  to 
conjecture  what  they  would  do  with  her  or  her 
diary. 

The  journal  had  been  kept  at  irregular  intervals 
for  about  three  months.  It  was  an  unlucky  pur- 
chase of  Lily's  own,  commented  upon  approv- 
ingly at  the  time  by  her  relatives,  who  had  taken 
her  to  shop  in  Ilverton.  Apparently  Lily's  notions 
of  diary-keeping  and  autobiography  were  some- 
what confused.  She  began  by  obligingly  recount- 
ing her  origin,  obviously  basing  her  style  upon 
the  opening  chapter  of  Gulliver's  Travels 
—  a  book  generally  considered  improving 
for  children,  though  it  is  hard  to  know 
why. 

"My  father  has  a  large  estate  in  Devonshire. 
I  am  his  only  daughter,  but  he  has  a  son  some- 
what older  than  me.  The  charge  of  maintaining 
me  being  somewhat  great  for  a  narrow  fortune, 
my  Aunt  and  Grandmother  reside  with  us  and 
assist  my  father  in  maintaining  me  and  applying 
me  close  to  my  studies. 

**  Unlike  most  children  and  especially  my  Cousin 


126  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

Philippa,  who  I  must  add  is  also  somewhat  my 
senior  by  6  years  and  my  intimut  friend,  I  spend 
my  lesure  moments  reading  the  best  authors  all 
I  can  get,  viz.  Miss  Yonge,  Walter  Scott,  Ander- 
son's fairy  tales,  the  Bab  ballads,  the  Wide  Wide 
World,  Shakespeare's  Lamb's  tales  and  many 
other  standard  works." 

The  stilted  style  proving  too  great  an  effort, 
it  was  more  or  less  abandoned  after  two  or  three 
pages,  laboriously  inscribed  in  Lily's  best  round 
hand.  The  writing  degenerated  into  a  hurried 
but  legible  scrawl — Lily's  thoughts  obviously 
transcribed  without  an  effort. 

"My  Father  has  a  reddish  face  and  a  goldish 
moustache.  I  may  be  predijiced  in  his  favour, 
but  I  think  him  nice-looking,  though  his  nose  is 
rather  round  at  the  tip.  Hector  is  a  plain  likeness 
of  his  pattemal  parent,  but  it  is  to  be  hopped 
may  improve.  Boys  are  very  fortunate  as  their 
moustache  will  some  day  hide  the  worst  end  of 
their  face,  this  we  cannot  hope  for  but  are  luckily 
generally  better  looking  than  them.  Aunt  Clara 
is  an  exception,  her  eyes  are  like  glass  marbles 
in  a  pudding.  Granny  has  black  eyes  and  her  face 
is  thoroly  mapped  out  in  wrinkles,  but  she  is 
hansome,  for  an  old  person  I  mean,  only  her 
neck  is  rather  baggy.  She  has  a  dreadful  temper 
and  all  the  servants  hate  her  except  Cook,  but 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  127 

Cook  says  she  knows  better  than  to  let  her  see  it, 
so  I  suppose  Cook  is  the  one  person  she  is  afraid  of. 
Every  one  else  is  afraid  of  her  espechuUy  my 
poor  father,  but  when  I  grow  up  I  mean  to  take 
him  quietly  away  somewhere  with  me  and  my 
husband,  and  let  him  have  a  happy  old  age  under 
my  roof  where  Granny  shall  never  set  foot.  Jane 
and  Eliza  have  promised  to  come  and  live  with 
me,  and  in  return  I  have  promised  to  invite  their 
young  men  to  tea  instead  of  their  having  to  hide 
in  the  shrubbery  on  Sunday  evenings.  .  ,  .  My 
head  is  very  bad  to-day.  Aunt  Clara  came  to 
see  me  in  bed  last  night.  She  told  me  Uncle 
David  was  coming.  He  is  poor  Mamma's  brother, 
but  he  is  Granny's  nephew  too  because  Mamma 
and  Daddy  were  first  cousins.  When  Aunt  Clara 
told  me  I  could  not  remember  the  last  time  he 
came,  the  devel  tempted  me  to  say  I  did.  It 
turns  out  I  wasn't  bom.  Every  one  is  libel  to 
make  mistakes.  I  am  to  learn  a  new  hymn  to 
punish  me.  She  has  acidentilly  given  me  one  I 
know  already  but  I  did  not  tell  her.  I  am  writing 
my  diary  while  I  am  supposed  to  be  learning  it. 
I  hate  Aunt  Clara.  .  .  .  This  morning  the  devel 
wat  at  it  again  tempting  me  to  take  three  almonds 
off  the  sideboard  but  I  only  took  one.  Unfortu- 
nately I  pulled  it  out  of  my  pocket  with  my 
handkerchief  at  lessons.  Whatever  I  do  I  am 
always  found  out.  Hector  says  some  boys  are 
like  that,  he  isn't.     I  would  not  have  taken  it 


128  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

only  in  revenge  because  2  days  running  I  have 
had  no  dessert  for  bad  behaviour,  I  was  sent  to 
bed,  one  never  knows  what  a  day  may  bring  4th. 
I  wish  Aunt  Clara  would  not  come  and  see  me  in 
bed.  Cook  says  it  is  very  bad  for  me  to  cry  every 
night.  .  .  .  Yesterday  Daddy  took  me  to  Church 
and  I  was  very  good  indeed.  I  mean  in  my  inside, 
I  felt  good,  espechully  when  the  organ  played 
and  we  sang  Abide  with  me.  Aunt  Clara  had  a 
cold  and  could  not  come.  Wishing  to  please  God 
I  tried  to  be  sorry,  but  I  wasn't  really.  She  sings 
very  loud  and  out  of  tune,  and  pokes  me  if  I  get 
in  a  reveree.  .  .  .  Aunt  Clara  caught  me  in  the 
pantry.  I  was  laughing  at  Macpherson's  jokes. 
He  is  a  very  witty  man.  He  likes  to  have  a  crack 
with  me.  This  is  Scotch.  She  rowed  me  about 
it  in  bed  for  hours  and  hours  and  I  cried  so  my 
head  is  dreadful  this  morning.  Granny  says 
children  don't  know  what  headaches  mean.  I 
smiled  to  myself.  When  no  one  is  looking  I  can 
be  as  sarkastic  as  Granny.  ...  I  had  a  nice 
long  think  last  night.  I  have  several  private 
thinks,  which  make  me  happy  when  I  am  all 
alone.  One  is  about  a  game  Philippa  and  I  used 
to  have.  We  played  I  was  found  out  to  be  Cousin 
Catherine's  child  and  she  was  found  out  to  be 
me.  She  told  me  all  the  things  she  would  say  to 
Granny  and  Aunt  Clara  (she  is  as  brave  as  a  lion) 
and  how  Cousin  Catherine  would  pet  me,  and  let 
me  sleep  in  her  room,  and  not  eat  fat  or  milk 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  129 

puddings,  and  read  all  the  books  at  Shepherd's 
Rest.  Philippa  is  too  old  for  games  now  but  she 
has  promised  to  tell  me  all  her  secrets  so  I  don't 
mind.  I  feel  rather  old  for  games  myself.  .  .  . 
Uncle  David  has  been  to  see  Hector  and  Hector 
has  written  to  tell  me  he  is  splendid,  he  tipped 
Hector  £2.  I  hope  he  will  tip  me,  but  people  never 
seem  to  think  of  girls  wanting  money.  When 
I  am  grown  up  I  shall  frequently  tip  girls  and  not 
advise  them  how  to  spend  it.  He  tipped  Hector's 
three  chums,  Browne  and  Noble  and  Skinner  ;i^i 
each.  All  the  boys  knew  who  he  was  and  cheered 
him  like  anything,  and  Hector  said  he  was  proud 
of  him.  Aunt  Clara  would  read  the  letter  though 
I  said  it  was  private.  She  made  me  learn  'Pride, 
ugly  pride.'  .  .  .  When  they  were  at  dinner  I 
fetched  the  book  of  Plato  that  I  mustn't  read, 
from  poor  Mamma's  bookcase,  and  read  about 
the  death  of  Socrates  which  always  makes  me  sad 
but  agreeable.  There  is  a  dry  flower  on  the 
page  so  I  know  poor  Mamma  must  have  liked  it 
too.  He  does  not  appear  to  have  said  many 
prayers.  He  just  screwed  hisself  up  and  died. 
It  is  what  we  must  all  come  to.  Determined  to 
be  a  philosopher.  .  .  .  Last  night  my  think  was 
about  winning  a  V.C.  for  myself.  The  house  was 
on  fire  and  I  saved  every  one  by  my  presence  of 
mind.  As  it  hapened  the  King  and  Queen  was 
there,  so  my  gallantry  was  rewarded.  Atmt 
Clara  had  to  stand  by  and  see  it  done,  which  is  the 
9 


130  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

part  of  this  think  I  like  best.  .  .  .  Uncle  David 
is  come;  he  is  like  Edgar  Ravenswood  but  not  so 
melancholy.  Granny  does  not  like  him  though 
he  is  her  nephew.  He  does  not  like  Granny  and 
Axmt  Clara  but  he  is  very  polite.  Daddy  would 
be  happy  if  he  could  now  Uncle  David  is  here.  I 
always  know  when  he  tries  to  make  jokes  to 
make  things  go  off  well.  I  think  this  is  pathet- 
ick,  as  he  is  not  really  a  witty  man  like  Macpher- 
son.  .  .  .  Uncle  David  has  not  tipped  me  but  I 
don't  mind  as  he  pets  me  all  the  time.  I  am 
very  happy  indeed.  .  .  We  went  to  the  sea  and 
paddled.  Uncle  David  took  me  on  his  shoulder. 
Though  I  am  far  too  old  for  this  I  enjoyed  it. 
A  person  named  Lady  Grace  petted  me.  I  ate 
two  meringues  and  felt  rather  sick.  The  ends  of 
Uncle  David's  moustache  are  curled,  he  does  this 
with  soap.  He  has  a  servant  to  wash  and  dress 
him.  When  I  grow  up  I  shall  marry  Uncle  David 
if  it  is  not  illiggle.  .  .  .  Aunt  Clara  says  she  has 
been  obliged  to  tell  Uncle  David  how  naughty 
I  am.  I  wish  I  was  dead.  .  .  .  Aunt  Clara  has 
asked  to  see  my  diary,  and  there's  no  fire  so  I 
can't  bum  it.  I  shall  pretend  I  have  lost  it,  and 
hide  it  in  my  playbox.  ...  I  have  written  a 
letter  to  poor  Mamma  and  buried  it  in  my  own 
garden  as  deep  as  I  could.  Perhaps  God  will 
let  her  read  it,  and  in  it  I  have  asked  her  to  come 
and  fetch  me.  I  don't  know  what  else  to 
do.  .  .  ." 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  131 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other  in  silence 
across  this  revelation  of  a  child's  mind. 

"And  I  thought  she  was  only  a  baby,"  said 
George,  with  a  groan. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Philippa  was  gone,  and  Catherine  sat  alone  in 
her  little  garden  at  Shepherd's  Rest,  mechanically 
gazing  down  the  narrow  path  before  her  cottage; 
upon  the  rim  of  turf  freshly  studded  with  defiant 
daisies  since  yesterday's  mowing;  upon  the 
edging  of  pinks,  green  buds  bursting  into  white 
bloom  in  a  forest  of  grey-blue  leaf  and  stem;  upon 
the  long  line  of  quivering  emerald  blades  which 
heralded  the  arrival  of  the  brilliant  gladioli; 
and  the  row  of  standard  roses  above  them. 

Her  view  of  the  garden  path  was  bounded 
by  the  cherry-tree  she  had  planted  on  Philippa's 
fourth  birthday,  and  by  a  flowering  tree-lupin,  a 
great  snow  queen  showering  white  blossom  above 
a  group  of  giant  oriental  poppies,  scarlet  and 
black. 

In  the  midst  of  the  beauty  she  loved,  and  the 
garden  she  had  created,  the  words,  Behold,  your 
house  is  left  unto  you  desolate,  rang  in  her  ears. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  this  dear  low  red  roof, 
those  broad  eaves  where  the  house-martins  were 
darting  in  and  out  of  humbler  homes  in  the  shel- 
ter of  hers,  of  the  brown  porch  curtained  with 

132 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  133 

clematis,  the  wann  cob  walls,  gay  and  sweet  with 
roses  and  honeysuckle,  if  they  did  not  mean  home 
to  Philippa? 

Catherine  asked  herself  this  question,  almost 
startled  by  the  pang  of  grief  and  indignation 
which  assailed  her  at  the  thought  that  her  child 
held  cheap  this  rose-clad  comer  of  the  west. 

In  the  course  of  years,  the  home,  valued  at  first 
only  because  it  sheltered  the  one  she  loved  best 
in  all  the  world,  had  become  dear  for  its  own 
sake  to  Catherine.  Had  she  treasured  the  casket 
and  lost  the  jewel  it  contained? 

Her  beloved  child  was  sometimes  uncertain, 
capricious,  exacting;  often  unresponsive;  but  cer- 
tain was  the  consolation  afforded  by  that  hum- 
ble cottage,  and  garden,  and  farm;  certain 
the  dreamy  joy  of  the  sunset  over  the  hills,  the 
outline  of  the  solemn  pines,  the  blue  haze  of 
distance,  the  white  foam  of  orchard  blossom 
against  a  turquoise  sky,  the  sunny  garden  with 
its  shady  comers  of  fig-tree  and  fernery,  the  silent 
wood,  the  brook  bubbling  eternally  in  the  meadow, 
the  cool  restfulness  of  the  oak  parlour  with  its 
deep  window-seat  and  shelves  of  chosen  books, 
its  memories  of  the  warmth  and  brightness  of 
wood-fire  and  lamp  on  winter  evenings,  of  sun- 
blinds  and  rosebowls  in  summer  days. 

For  sixteen  years  the  world  had  passed  this 
comer  by,  and  Catherine  had  hugged  her  hap- 
piness,   forgetful    of    trouble,    believing   all    her 


134  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

responsibilities  bounded  by  the  thatched  walls 
of  her  garden,  and  shut  in  by  the  high  red  banks 
of  the  Devon  hedgerows  that  enclosed  the  little 
farm. 

Within  these  sheltered  precincts  how  faithful 
she  had  been  to  her  duties;  how  she  had  fought 
against  the  idleness  and  dreaming  congenial  to 
her  nature;  how  conscientious,  how  passionately 
tender  had  been  her  guardianship  of  her  child. 

Perhaps  poor  mortals  would  seldom  fail  in 
duty  were  duty  always  cut  and  dried  and  certain. 
It  may  be  the  added  difficulty  of  discovering 
where  duty  lies  that  begets  hesitation  and  doubt, 
and  consequent  half-heartedness  in  performance. 

It  had  all  been  so  simple  when  Philippa  was 
little.  When  a  mother  is  nurse  and  playmate 
and  oracle  in  one,  and  the  child  is  still  a  child,  it  is 
always  simple.  But  later,  who  is  to  solve  the 
problems  that  arise  ? 

Not  the  woman-child,  impatient  of  authority, 
yearning  for  she  knows  not  what,  conscious  of 
having  outgrown  the  nest,  yet  fretting  to  suspect 
herself  of  ingratitude.  Not  the  mother,  half 
afraid  of  the  stranger  who  is  growing  up  beside 
her  in  place  of  the  helpless  babe  who  was  once 
laid  in  her  bosom;  half  fearful  lest  her  love  be 
weakness,  her  grief  selfishness,  and  her  bewilder- 
ment only  want  of  faith  in  her  child  and  her  God. 

Yet  when  the  mutual  early  dependence  has 
been  whole-hearted  this  spiritual  rupture  must 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  136 

be  endured,  must  be  felt  by  both.  By  the  mother 
in  proportion  to  her  capacity  for  spiritual  suffer- 
ing; by  the  child,  perhaps  only  a  little,  a  very 
little  at  the  moment,  but  almost  certainly  again 
later,  in  the  retrospect,  when  the  mother,  it  may 
be,  can  feel  no  more. 

Catherine's  thoughts  wandered  from  the  garden, 
at  which  she  gazed  so  earnestly,  to  the  parting 
of  that  morning,  when  Philippa — afflicted  with 
the  self-consciousness  of  youth,  in  addition  to 
her  large  inheritance  of  the  Adelstane  dignity — 
had  avoided  all  demonstration  of  farewell  as  far 
as  possible. 

"Mother,  please,  don't  come  to  the  station  to 
see  me  off.  Let  me  drive  Roper  in  the  pony 
carriage  down  to  the  Abbey  this  morning,  and 
start  with  Cousin  Augusta,  as  she  said." 

"Very  well,  my  darling,"  said  Catherine,  and 
added  humorously,  "but  if  I  promised  not  to 
disgrace  you  by  breaking  down,  Phil?" 

"How  can  you  be  sure  you  won't  break  down?" 
said  Philippa  suspiciously.  "No,  no,  and  that 
horrid  Lady  Grace  will  be  there." 

"Don't  you  like  Lady  Grace?  I  thought  her 
so  pleasant  and  amiable,"  said  Catherine,  in 
surprise. 

"She  looks  down  on  me,  and  she  is  always 
shut  up  in  Cousin  Augusta's  boudoir,  talking  and 
laughing  by  the  hour  together,"  said  Philippa 
jealously.     "She  treats  me  as  though  I  were  a 


136  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

little  girl.  One  comfort  is  she'll  have  to  go  off 
to  her  horrid  old  flat  directly  we  go  to  Lon- 
don, then  I  shall  have  Cousin  Augusta  all  to 
myself." 

Catherine  knew  not  whether  to  sigh  or  to  smile 
at  this  fervent  aspiration,  so  certain  was  she 
that  it  must  prove  illusory. 

Philippa  had  stipulated  so  earnestly  for  no 
parting  words,  that  her  mother  was  almost  afraid 
to  speak  for  fear  of  disturbing  her  easily  ruffled 
composure. 

"It's  bad  enough  to  have  to  go  through  it  all 
with  Aunt  Dulcinea,  one  expects  her  to  cry  over 
one  every  time  one  comes  back  safely  from  a 
stroll  round  the  garden;  but  I  can't  stand  it 
from  you,  mummy,"  she  said  impatiently;  "you 
know  I  mean  to  be  as  careful  and  good  as  any- 
thing— there,  I  promise.  And  I'll  write  to  you 
regularly.  Don't,  don't  begin  reminding  me  not 
to  get  my  feet  wet  and  things  like  that." 

"No,  no,  I  won't,"  said  Catherine,  and  she 
swallowed  a  thousand  anxious  injunctions,  con- 
tenting herself  with  lecturing  Roper  upon  the 
care  of  Philippa's  health.  "Only  remember,  my 
darling,  I  am  always  here,  ready  to  fly  to  you  at 
any  moment  if  you  want  me,  or  get  into  the 
slightest  trouble  or  difficulty." 

"Mother,  as  if  I  didn't  know  that.  Am  I  going 
to  the  end  of  the  world?"  cried  Philippa;  and 
the  last  careless  kiss  was  given,  the  bright  face 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  137 

smiled  from  the  gate  upon  the  sad  face  in  the 
porch,  and  the  child  was  gone. 

Aunt  Dulcinea  departed  on  her  usual  round 
of  visits,  after  warmly  offering  to  remain  and 
bear  Catherine  company. 

"But,  indeed,  dear,  I  believe  it  would  be 
better  for  you  to  come  out  with  me.  What  a 
fine  opportunity  for  you  to  begin  a  little  good 
work!  Reading  to  poor  Granny  Weston,  for 
instance,  who  never  leaves  her  bed.  It  would 
take  your  thoughts  off  the  child.  Oh,  Catherine, 
I  can't  help  wishing  you  had  gone  with  her," 
said  Miss  Dulcinea,  "I  am  so  afraid  you  will 
fret,  alone  with  a  dull  old  person  like  me." 

"I  have  too  much  to  do  here  to  go  out  in  the 
morning.  Auntie.  That  is  your  work,  to  do  the 
visiting  and  reading,"  said  Catherine,  smiling, 
"and  I  like  ver>^  much  to  be  alone  now  and  then. 
You  know  Philippa  has  scarcely  been  at  home 
at  all  since  Cecil  and  Augusta  came  back.  No,  no, 
you  must  toddle  round  as  usual.  Let  me  see,  it's 
your  day  for  lunching  with  old  Miss  Nutt,  and 
tea  at  the  parsonage.  I  will  send  the  pony-carriage 
for  you  at  about  six." 

"Well,  if  you  are  sure  you  don't  mind,  darling. 
I  don't  like  to  disappoint  Miss  Nutt,  and  the 
luncheon  prepared,  and  all.  And  she  will  want 
to  hear  about  the  picnic,  and  Philippa's  going  to 
London,  you  know,  and  everything." 

Catherine  was  not  very  sorry  to  see  Miss  Dul- 


138  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

cinea  off.  She  helped  her  tie  on  the  brown  mush- 
room hat  which  hung  in  the  hall,  found  her  walk- 
ing-stick, and  saw  that  the  old-fashioned  round 
basket  she  carried  on  her  arm,  in  the  shelter  of 
her  grey  cloak,  was  properly  filled  with  the  little 
gifts  the  poor  lady  loved  to  distribute. 

But  when  this  old  sister  of  mercy  had  de- 
parted, instead  of  going  at  once  to  her  daily  work 
in  the  dairy  or  elsewhere,  Catherine  went  upstairs, 
and  looked  sadly  about  her  empty  silent  room, 
and  at  Philippa's  little  white  bed  next  her  own. 
Inanimate  things  that  have  no  voices  when 
human  beings  are  present  speak  very  loudly 
sometimes  in  their  absence.  To  Catherine's 
listening  heart  a  thousand  voices  surged  in  the 
silence.  She  felt  in  this  moment  a  melancholy 
foretaste  of  what  life  would  be  when  her  child, 
in  the  course  of  nature,  passed  altogether  out  of 
her  daily  existence.  The  thought  was  intolera- 
ble, and  she  went  downstairs  and  into  the  garden 
to  escape  it.  There  she  sat  upon  the  bench  be- 
neath the  fig-tree,  and,  unmindful  of  the  brightness 
of  the  summer  morning,  shed  a  few  quiet  tears. 

The  click  of  the  latch  of  the  garden  gate  caused 
her  to  look  up  in  surprise.  Visitors  did  not 
often  find  their  way  up  to  Shepherd's  Rest  in 
the  morning. 

"Oh,  David,  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you.  It  was 
good  of  you  to  come,"  she  cried,  hastening  to 
meet  him,  "you  knew  that  she  had  started?" 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  139 

"She — ^who — oh,  Philippa!  I  beg  your  pardon. 
Of  course  I  knew  she  was  going  to-day,  but  I  am 
afraid  I  have  come  on  selfish  errands  of  my  own," 
he  said,  looking  down  upon  her  with  some  concern, 
as  he  noted  the  signs  of  weeping  on  her  soft  pale 
face.  "Why,  you  are  not  so  unhappy  over  it  as 
all  that,  little  Catherine,  are  you?" 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  laugh  at  me,"  said 
Catherine,  and  she  tried  to  smile  through  her 
tears. 

"You  are  laughing  at  yourself!  Tears  because 
Philippa  has  left  you  for  how  long — a  week — 
three  weeks — a  month?  Why,  Catherine,  you  are 
growing  morbid,  shut  up  in  this  little  nest." 

"Perhaps  so,"  she  said  wistfully.  "It  sounds 
absurd,  I  know,  but  even  now  I  long  to  pack  up 
and  follow  her,  if  I  were  not  ashamed " 

"Why  not?" 

"You  heard  her  say — you  know — she  wanted 
to  go  by  herself,"  Catherine  faltered. 

"To  be  sure;  so  would  you  and  I  at  her  age," 
he  said  warmly.  ' '  She  is  too  old  to  be  treated  like 
a  baby." 

"She  seems  little  more  than  a  baby  to  me  some- 
times , ' '    Catherine  admitted. 

"Nonsense,  she  is  a  woman.  Why,  she 
would  make  two  of  you!  And  a  very  princess 
of  dignity.  Par  better  able  to  take  care  of 
herself  than  you  are,"  he  said,  smiling.  Then 
his  manner   changed  to  remorseful   tenderness. 


140  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"Am  I  very,  very  unsympathetic?  Poor  little 
Catherine." 

"Oh,  David,  David,  you  are  so  like  Delia 
when  you  speak  like  that.  It  makes  me  able  to 
talk  to  you  more  openly  than  I  could  to  others, 
for  I  feel  almost  as  though  I  were  talking  to  her 
once  more.  I  am  so  afraid  I  have  been  selfish, 
not  giving  Philippa  proper  chances,  not  facing  the 
world  as  I  should.  I  torment  myself  thinking 
so,  and  now  I  feel  so  unfit  to  begin.  I  have  no 
one  to  advise  me — ^who  understands,"  said  Cath- 
erine, with  trembling  lip.  "Perhaps  old  Lady 
Sarah  might,  but  she  always  said  I  was  wrong  to 
shut  myself  up  here.  You  are  a  man  of  the  world, 
David,  what  do  you  think  I  ought  to  have  done?" 

"What  does  it  matter  what  you  ought  to  have 
done?  It  is  no  use  to  think  about  that,  since 
you  can't  go  back,"  said  David  decidedly.  "You 
did  the  best  you  could,  according  to  your  judg- 
ment at  the  time ;  and  I  should  like  to  know  how 
you  could  have  done  better,  or  how  you  could 
wish  Philippa  different.  You  have  brought  her 
up  splendidly.  She  is  at  home  among  her  father's 
people,  and  familiar  with  her  future  inheritance. 
Talk  of  English  girls,  she  is  the  very  ideal  of  an 
English  girl.  Fair  and  healthy,  and  transparently 
innocent  and  sincere." 

"Oh,  David,  how  you  comfort  me!  Yes,  my 
darling  is  all  that,"  cried  Catherine,  flushing  a 
little  proudly. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  141 

''What  more  do  you  want?"  he  said,  "you've 
helped  to  make  her  all  that.  And  yet  you  are 
afraid  to  trust  her  away  from  you  for  a  few 
days!" 

"I  am  not  exactly  afraid  of  trusting  her.  In- 
deed she  is  very  high-principled — in  her  way," 
said  Catherine,  smiling,  "far  more  anxious  to  do 
the  right  thing  than  I  am  myself.  She  reminds 
me  a  little  of  Cecil." 

"I  cannot  see  the  resemblance,"  said  David. 
"Cecil  is  a  good  fellow,  but  he  is  as  cold  as  an 
iceberg,  and  as  dull  as  ditchwater.  No,  no,  she 
may  owe  her  beautiful  profile  to  the  Adelstanes, 
but  she  owes  her  high  principles  to  you." 

"I  have  done  my  best,"  said  Catherine  wistfully, 
"I  am  shocked  to  remember  how  few  principles 
I  began  life  with.  No  one  told  me  an3rthing.  x 
have  had  to  evolve  them  from  my  own  experience 
and  convictions." 

"Those  are  the  principles  to  which  one  can 
never  be  false,"  he  said  gravely. 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  he  spoke  with 
something  of  Delia's  eagerness  and  certainty  of 
sympathy. 

"And  now  may  I  speak  of  my  own  troubles? 
For  to  tell  you  the  truth  I  came  to  ask  consolation 
and  not  to  administer  it.  We  are  rather  in  a 
tangle  down  at  Bridescombe." 

"Is  it  little  Lily?" 

* '  Yes.    How  did  you  guess  ? ' ' 


142  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"I  saw  signs  of  something  brewing  with  Clara 
at  the  picnic.  I  suppose  what  you  said  the  other 
day  opened  my  eyes.  And  I  watched  Lily.  She 
was  so  imlike  her  usual  little  moping  self  when  she 
was  playing  with  you.  But  you  are  right,  David. 
The  child  is  not  happy  and  she  is  not  well.  To 
be  sure,  she  said  she  had  a  headache!" 

"She  always  has  a  headache,"  said  David 
blimtly.  "Catherine,  I  want  you  to  take  her  in 
for  a  bit." 

"I!"  said  Catherine,  startled. 

"Will  you?" 

"Will  I?  Oh,  David,  can  you  ask?  Delia's 
child!  Is  it  your  idea?" 

"Well,"  he  said,  laughing  quietly,  **I  may  say 
it  is  Lily's  idea." 

"But  what  will  Mrs.  Chilcott  say?" 

"You  are  as  bad  as  George!  But  he  will  not 
consult  his  mother  about  this.  He  wishes  it  as 
much  as  I  do.  He  has  just  discovered  that  Lily's 
little  noddle  is  not  so  empty  as  he  supposed.  Her 
poor  little  journal  has  come  to  light,  and  with  it 
what  Clara  is  pleased  to  call  the  revelation  of 
Lily's  true  character.  Oh,  Catherine,  as  I  read, 
the  years  seemed  to  roll  backward,  and  I  heard 
my  little  sister  Delia  talking  to  me.  Poor  old 
George  is  quite  overcome  by  the  discovery  that  a 
worm  will  turn.  In  other  words,  that  a  child 
who  is  terrorised  morning,  noon,  and  night  resorts 
to  fibbing." 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  143 


"David,  if  Clara  were  set  over  me- 


" Exactly.  So  should  I.  But  poor  old  George 
wouldn't.  Partly  because  he's  innately  honest 
and  partly  because  he's  innately  stupid.  So  he's 
as  miserable  as  possible.  Determined  to  rescue 
Lily's  morals,  and  not  knowing  how  to  do  it 
without  seeming  to  insult  his  mother.  So  I 
suggested  coming  up  to  consiilt  you — unbe- 
known, of  course,  to  Aunt  Lydia.  At  least,  I 
hope  so!" 

The  humorous  alarm  of  his  expression  caused 
Catherine  to  reflect  that  after  all,  David  being 
but  mortal  man,  he  probably  disliked  the  prospect 
of  a  scene  with  two  angry  women  as  much  as 
poor  George  himself. 

"How  would  it  be,"  she  said — "you  know  they 
think  me  very  artful,  and  perhaps  I  am  a  little — 
if  /  came  down  and  asked  for  Lily  to  stay  with 
me  while  Philippa  was  away?  Then  they  could 
blame  me,  and  it  would  be  less  uncomfortable 
for  you  and  George.  And  nothing  need  be  ex- 
plained to  Lily." 

"Catherine,  you  are  an  angel!"  He  took  her 
hand  and  kissed  it,  and  she  was  so  unused — ^poor 
Catherine — to  the  ghost  of  a  caress,  that  the 
gentle  gallantry  of  his  salute  caused  her  to  blush 
with  confusion. 

"Perhaps  she  will  console  you  a  little,"  he  said 
presently,  "for  Philippa's  absence." 

She  shook  her  head,  smiled,  and  sighed,  looking 


144  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

round  the  little  garden  which  lay  before  them 
in  the  full  warmth  of  the  morning  sunshine, 
though  the  bench  where  they  were  seated  was 
pleasantly  shaded.  But  she  saw  only  the  vision 
of  her  daughter's  bright  face,  all  smiles  and 
gladness — as  she  had  seen  it  last.  Yet  she  thought 
Philippa  had  cast  a  backward  glance  over  her 
shoulder  as  she  turned  away;  as  though  she, 
too,  were  conscious  that  she  was  leaving  her 
childhood  behind  her  for  ever,  and  was  taking  a 
mute,  hurried,  half-frightened  farewell. 

With  a  start  Catherine's  attention  was  recalled 
to  the  guelder  rose  nodding  over  the  roof  of  the 
garden  shed,  upon  which  David's  eyes  were 
fixed. 

"We  used  to  call  them  snowballs,"  he  said, 
indicating  the  round  white  blossoms  with  the 
point  of  his  stick.    "What's  the  real  name?" 

She  told  him. 

"Philippa  called  them  porridge-balls,  I  don't 
know  why,"  said  Catherine,  and  the  foolish 
recollection  filled  her  eyes  with  tears  again;  she 
saw  the  baby  Philippa  running  over  the  little 
lawn  in  her  white  frock  and  red  shoes  so  very 
plainly  just  then. 

"Suppose  I  invited  myself  to  lunch  with  you," 
said  David  suddenly. 

"Will  you?  It  would  be  a  great  pleasure.  But 
I  must  order  something  more  substantial.  Au- 
gusta says  I  live  Hke  a  Spartan." 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  145 

"She  has  not  many  opportunities  of  judging, 
I  should  gather." 

"No,  she  has  not.  But  she  lunched  here  once 
and  that  was  enough.  And  then  Roper  was  to  the 
fore.  Now  I  have  only  my  village  maiden,  and 
I  am  afraid  I  prefer  my  own  cooking  to  hers. 
You  are  not  like  the  others  to  be  shocked!" 

His  laugh  rang  through  the  quiet  cottage  as 
he  followed  Catherine,  stooping  his  tall  head  to 
enter  the  low  doorway. 

The  little  maid  had  arranged  Catherine's 
frugal  limch  on  the  round  table  in  the  window 
of  the  old-fashioned  entrance:  once  farm  kitchen 
and  living-room,  now  by  courtesy  the  hall.  The 
day  was  hot,  but  the  thickness  of  the  cob  walls 
and  high-pitched  roof  made  the  interior  of  the 
cottage  cool,  and  the  square  lattice  stood  open. 
The  honeysuckle  blew  in  and  swung  round  the 
frame  which  held  the  living  picture  of  blooming 
garden  and  green  countryside.  On  the  snowy 
cloth  stood  a  home-baked  loaf,  a  plate  of  let- 
tuce, a  red  pitcher  of  milk,  some  frozen  yellow 
butter,  and  an  iced  junket  heaped  with  clotted 
cream. 

"A  refrigerator  is  my  pet  luxury,"  said  Cath- 
erine. "It  is  extraordinary  to  me  how  many 
people  in  small  country  houses  grudge  the  expense 
of  ice,  and  are  contented  to  speckle  their  own 
and  their  visitors'  cups  of  tea  with  sour  milk 
and    curdling    cream.     I    was    going    to    make 


146  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

myself  an  omelette,  David,  but  you  shall  have 
something  more  substantial." 

She  flitted  cheerfully  away  to  the  kitchen  and 
larder,  surprised  at  her  own  good  spirits.  "There 
is  something  in  a  man's  presence  which  dis- 
perses the  primness  and  dulness  of  a  house  like 
magic,"  she  thought  to  herself;  and  the  little 
handmaid  thought  so  too,  as  she  followed  her 
mistress  in  a  flutter  of  pleasure  and  surprise,  and 
anxiety  that  the  gentleman  should  have  every- 
thing he  could  possibly  desire. 

The  luncheon  was  actually  a  merry  one,  though 
Catherine  would  not  have  conceived  it  possible 
that  the  first  meal  she  sat  down  to  after  Philippa's 
departure  could  be  a  cheerful  one. 

There  was  a  curious  sense  of  comradeship; 
a  restful  certainty  that  her  thoughts  could  be 
translated  into  words  without  fear  of  misunder- 
standing; she  was  used  to  being  continually  on 
guard  in  the  presence  of  her  child,  before  whom 
it  was  inexpedient  to  speak  openly  of  all  that 
was  in  her  heart  and  mind;  and  who  was  besides 
a  severe  though  unconscious  critic  of  her  mother's 
words  and  ways,  as  Catherine  was  ruefully  aware. 
Miss  Dulcinea  heard  imperfectly,  was  apt  to 
require  much  explanation,  and  given  to  retailing 
very  innocently  matter  too  insignificant  in  it- 
self not  to  gain  in  the  telling.  Conversation  had, 
in  fact,  to  be  suited  to  Miss  Dulcinea's  age  quite 
as  carefully  as  to  Philippa's  youth.     The  two 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  147 

could  say  what  they  chose  to  her;  it  was  her 
business  to  console,  to  advise,  and  to  listen.  But 
here  was  equality  of  age,  independence,  and 
understanding. 

Catherine  forgot  her  unhappiness  and  David 
his  anxiety  about  little  Lily ;  they  talked  of  Delia 
— not  sadly,  but  recalling  characteristics  of  her 
youth,  and  the  memories  they  had  in  common; 
and  presently  David  spoke  a  little,  and  briefly, 
of  his  work,  enough  to  show  Catherine  that  it 
absorbed  the  greater  part  of  his  interest  in  life.  As 
he  talked  it  seemed  to  her  as  though  her  horizon 
widened  and  lifted,  and  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
great  world  teeming  with  life  and  action,  beyond 
this  Httle  silent  rustic  Paradise  of  hers,  the  world 
upon  which  she  had  turned  her  back  in  her  youth. 

How  small  and  petty  and  narrow  must  her 
existence  seem  to  him,  she  reflected  sorrowfully, 
oblivious  of  the  charm  with  which  the  haven  of  a 
settled  home  is  invested  to  the  mind  of  a  life- 
long wanderer. 

After  limcheon  David  smoked  a  cigarette  in 
the  garden,  and  listened  to  the  loud  song  of  a 
thrush  in  the  cherry-tree.  He  reflected  rather 
dreamily  and  tenderly  upon  the  peace  of  this 
quiet  cottage  among  the  hills,  and  wished,  per- 
haps, for  the  space  of  a  few  seconds,  that  he  had 
such  a  shelter  waiting  for  him  somewhere  in  the 
wide  world.  Poor  little  Catherine!  David  was  in 
years  actually  her  senior,  and  yet  he  was  acutely 


148  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

conscious  of  the  fact  that  her  life  was  over,  while 
his  lay  before  him  yet,  full  of  possibilities  and 
hope  and  ambitions. 

"Her  voice  is  plaintive,"  he  thought,  "even 
though  it  is  sweet,  and  there  is  a  wistful  look 
in  her  eyes,  which  were  beautiful  eyes  once  and 
are  beautiful  yet,  though  the  lustre  of  youth  has 
departed.  What  a  lovely  colour  she  had  in 
those  days  when  we  went  primrosing — seventeen 
years  ago — eighteen,  by  Jove!  How  pale  and 
gentle  she  is  now.     Poor  little  Catherine!" 

He  thought  indulgently  of  her  grief  at  parting 
with  her  daughter  even  for  a  few  weeks.  It  was 
natural  that  she  should  grudge  the  sharing  of 
her  treasure  with  others,  just  as  it  was  natural 
the  child  should  wish  to  go. 

His  heart  was  very  tender  towards  Catherine 
as  she  came  out  presently,  dressed  for  walking, 
and  they  set  forth  together  on  their  mission  to 
Bridescombe. 


CHAPTER  IX 

Instead  of  allowing  Lord  John  Trelleck  to  es- 
cort her  back  to  town  immediately  after  Whit- 
suntide, as  Augusta  had  planned,  Lady  Sarah 
chose  to  remain  at  the  Abbey  until  the  very 
day  when  Lady  Adelstane's  engagements  obliged 
her  to  return  to  town.  Lady  Sarah  did  not, 
however,  propose  to  travel  en  famille,  and  there- 
fore departed  by  the  early  morning  train,  with 
her  dog,  her  maid,  and  her  footman  in  attendance ; 
after  taking  an  unusually  affectionate  farewell  of 
her  grandson,  who  was  detained  in  the  country 
by  business,  and  of  her  hostess. 

"I  like  to  travel  alone,  Augusta,  and  not  to 
feel  it  necessary  to  bawl  across  a  railway  carriage ; 
nor  to  be  bawled  at,  for  that  matter,  even  by  the 
pleasantest  companion  in  the  world,  as  I  am 
sure,  my  love,  you  must  be.  As  soon  as  you  are 
settled  down,  send  PhHippa  to  see  me.  I  shall  like 
to  see  how  she  looks  when  she  is  properly  dressed, 
and  I  hope  that  farouche  manner  of  hers  will 
presently  disappear.  Be  sure  you  don't  have  her 
stuffed  with  a  quantity  of  useless  lessons.  Take 
her  about  and  let  her  amuse  herself." 

149 


150  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"That  is  exactly  what  I  mean  to  do,"  said 
Augusta  comfortably.  For  once  she  was  quite 
in  accord  with  Lady  Sarah. 

"Of  course,  she  is  not  out,"  she  said,  suddenly 
mindful  of  her  promise  to  Catherine,  "but  there 
are  many  little  things  a  girl  can  very  well  enjoy 
before  she  comes  out." 

"My  dear,  I  was  married  at  her  age,"  said 
Lady  Sarah,  who  was  never  tired  of  recalling  the 
circumstance ;  "I  have  been  thinking  who  there  is 
that  might  do  for  Phtlippa.  Of  course  my  poor 
cousin  Kentisbury's  boy  comes  to  one's  mind. 
He  has  had  a  long  minority,  and,  though  his 
father  was  a  sad  scamp,  this  young  man  has  been 
very  carefully  brought  up  by  his  mother,  and 
she  is  dying  to  get  him  safely  married,  or  if  she  is 
not,  she  ought  to  be;  for  he  is  just  at  the  age 
when  young  men  are  apt  to  make  fools  of  them- 
selves. I  will  give  her  a  hint.  I  have  no  doubt 
he  is  just  the  husband  for  Philippa,  though  I 
can't  say  I  know  him  at  all  yet." 

But  Augusta  had  met  the  young  man  twice, 
so  felt  justified  in  stating  that  she  knew  him 
very  well  indeed,  and  that  he  was  perfectly 
charming. 

"The  fact  is,  I  intend  to  get  him  to  a  boy  and 
girl  dinner  party  for  the  Limdys'  dance,"  she 
said,  immediately  adding  his  name  to  a  mental 
list  she  had  compiled.  "That  is  to  be  quite  a 
small  affair,  her  girl  is  only  seventeen." 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  161 

"I  thought  Catherine  stipulated  for  no  dances,** 
said  Lady  Sarah  maliciously. 

"Of  course  I  must  use  my  discretion — ^when  it 
comes  to  boy  and  girl  affairs,"  said  Augusta, 
with  dignity.  "One  would  not  take  her  to  a 
ball."  . 

"I  wish  you  would  toddle  over  to  Bridescombe 
with  me,"  said  Mrs.  Rait  confidentially  to  Lady 
Grace  Trumoin.  "Gussie  has  made  one  excuse 
after  another  iintil  there  is  only  this  morning 
left,  and  I  really  am  keen  on  going  to  look  at 
George  Chilcott's  stud-farm  before  we  start." 

"I  should  be  only  too  pleased  if  Augusta  would 
not  mind." 

"My  dear  good  girl,  she's  a  hundred  things 
distracting  her,  besides  making  sure  that  Lady 
Sarah  does  not  miss  her  train.  And  I  must  posi- 
tively get  a  little  exercise  before  the  motor  comes 
roimd." 

"So  must  I,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it.  What 
a  shame  to  return  to  London  on  a  morning  like 
this,"  said  Lady  Grace. 

They  took  a  pleasant  way  under  the  limes, 
beside  the  wide  avenue  that  led  to  the  village. 
A  laurel  hedge  formed  a  sheltering  wall  on  the 
one  side  of  the  footpath,  and  the  lime  branches 
swept  the  grass  bank  on  the  other. 

The  day  was  breathlessly  hot,  but  the  thick 
foliage   arching   overhead   permitted   no   ray   of 


152  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

sun  to  penetrate  the  cool  twilight  of  this  green 
colonnade. 

"Why  do  you  go  back  to  town  then?  Come 
North  with  us;  we  shall  have  a  pleasant  trip.  No 
stuffy  railway  for  us,"  said  the  cheerful  Blanche. 
"Ralte  is  as  pretty  in  its  way  as  this.  No — 
not  so  pretty,"  she  added  conscientiously,  "but 
at  least  a  million  times  better  than  London!" 

"You  are  very  kind,  but  I  am  afraid  I  must 
return." 

"Come  later  then.  You  know,  you  and  I 
could  be  very  good  pals,"  said  Blanche  frankly. 
"As  one  grows  older  one  finds  no  companionship 
so  pleasant  as  that  of  the  people  one  has  known 
all  one's  life.  Nothing  to  explain  away,  and  all 
allusions  to  the  past  comprehended.  Saves  so 
much  trouble,"  said  Blanche,  with  her  jolly 
laugh. 

Lady  Grace  was  aware  that  Blanche  was  in 
many  ways  more  companionable  than  Augusta, 
whose  selfishness  became  at  times  as  fatiguing 
to  witness  as  to  endure.  She  was  also  aware  that 
Blanche,  though  outspoken  and  rough  in  her 
manner,  was  by  no  means  the  eccentric  vulgarian 
that  her  sister,  in  conversation  with  her  intimates, 
represented  her  to  be. 

Sir  Cecil's  estimate  of  his  sister-in-law  had  been 
powerfully  affected  by  the  misquotations  of  her 
sayings  and  doings  and  the  apocryphal  anecdotes 
of  her  past  which  Augusta  had  indulged  in  for 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  153 

years,  without  the  slightest  appreciation  of  her 
own  inaccuracy.  But  Lady  Adelstane's  friends 
were  less  blind  than  her  husband  to  her  idiosyn- 
crasies, and  were  thus  apt  to  discount  her  remarks. 
Lady  Grace  had  too  much  good  sense  to  allow 
her  own  calm  judgment  to  be  distorted  by  the 
prejudices  of  Augusta. 

She  observed  the  curious  fact  that  the  twins 
differed  in  character  as  widely  as  in  appearance. 

Blanche  was  outwardly  self-assertive,  though 
inwardly  the  very  soul  of  generosity  and  good 
nature,  while  Augusta's  amiable  manner  covered 
a  grasping  and  tenacious  disposition. 

"She  cares  for  nothing  and  nobody  in  the 
world  but  herself  and  her  own  comfort,"  thought 
Lady  Grace.  But  she  was  Augusta's  chosen 
friend  of  the  moment,  and  had  accepted  much 
hospitality  from  her,  and  she  knew  that  any 
display  of  intimacy  with  Blanche  would  be  tan- 
tamount to  disloyalty  in  the  eyes  of  the  jealous 
younger  sister.  It  would  not  be  "playing  the 
game." 

Therefore  she  could  not  immediately  respond 
to  Mrs.  Ralt's  overtures. 

"Perhaps,  later,  if  you  are  so  kind  as  to  ask 
me  again,"  she  said,  reflecting  that  by  the  end 
of  the  summer  Augusta's  affection  would  prob- 
ably have  cooled  down. 

"You  can  write  and  tell  me  any  time  you're 
free,"  said  Blanche,  winking  openly  and  cheerfully 


154  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

at  her  companion  in  order  to  indicate  that  she 
understood  the  situation  perfectly,  "fit  in  any- 
odd  moments,  you  know,  to  suit  yourself,  between 
more  attractive  invitations.  Bob  and  I  are  a 
dull  couple;  but,  however,  he  suits  me,  and  I 
suit  him.  The  great  thing  is  to  marry  for  com- 
panionship when  all  is  said  and  done,  since  love 
in  the  nature  of  things  is  boimd  to  be  evanescent. 
I  don't  know  that  we  ever  pretended  to  be  in 
love  with  each  other.  But  first  we  hobnobbed 
over  horses,  and  now  we  hobnob  over  motors. 
Look  here,  I  will  show  you  a  capital  short  cut  to 
Bridescombe  if  you  don't  mind  going  through 
the  churchyard  and  across  a  couple  of  fields." 

"Far  pleasanter  than  the  high  road,"  said 
Lady  Grace. 

"I  know  no  prettier  churchyard,"  said  Blanche, 
threading  her  way  among  the  quiet  hillocks  and 
old  moss-grown  headstones  to  the  turnstile  in  the 
low  wall,  over  which  the  foxgloves  were  nodding 
in  profusion  above  the  fern,  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  adjacent  orchard.  "Here  we  are  on  George 
Chilcott's  land,  and  very  good  land  it  is,  poor 
fellow." 

"Why  poor  fellow?  He  appears  to  be  well  ofl. 
I  like  George  Chilcott,"  said  Lady  Grace  languidly. 

"Then  I  wish  you'd  marry  him.  Somebody 
ought  to  marry  him,  and  if  you  like  him  I  do  not 
see  why  it  should  not  be  you,"  said  Mrs.  Rait, 
with  great  animation. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  155 

**I  should  be  delighted,  of  course,  but  he  hasn't 
asked  me." 

"Of  course  he  hasn't  asked  you.  He's  not  had 
a  chance.  He'd  ask  you  fast  enough  if  he  had, 
I  make  no  doubt.  And  now  I  come  to  think  of  it," 
said  Blanche,  pursuing  her  idea  with  great  interest, 
"you  would  be  the  very  person  to  tackle  that 
awful  mother  and  sister.  Now,  do  be  sensible, 
Grace;  I'm  very  fond  of  George  Chilcott,  and 
he's  one  of  the  best  fellows  in  the  world.  I  always 
call  him  Nathaniel,  because  in  him  there  is  no 
guile;  or  was  it  Nicodemus?  I  declare  I  forget! 
Anyway  I  call  him  Nathaniel.  I'll  get  him  to 
Rait  this  summer  if  you  '11  only  come. " 

"Of  course  I'll  come,"  said  Lady  Grace,  and 
she  smiled  so  calmly  that  Blanche  could  not  be 
certain  whether  she  were  in  jest  or  in  earnest. 

George  Chilcott,  imaware  of  these  plans  for 
his  future  happiness,  sat  wearily  in  his  study, 
with  the  local  newspaper  in  his  hand,  pretending 
to  read ;  and  wishing  that  after  all  he  had  walked 
to  Shepherd's  Rest  with  David,  instead  of  waiting 
passively  at  home  to  hear  the  result  of  his  embassy 
to  Catherine. 

Becoming  aware  of  footsteps  on  the  gravel 
path,  he  looked  up  impatiently,  expecting  to  see 
Clara  once  more;  but  instead  he  perceived  Lady 
Grace,  in  her  pretty  summer  dress,  with  a  flounced 
parasol  shading  her  delicate  face.  Though  her 
features  were  too  thin  and  too  marked  for  actual 


156  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

beauty,  her  whole  appearance  was  that  of  an 
exquisitely  well-bred  and  graceful  woman,  whose 
good  looks  were  thrown  into  high  relief  by  the 
pronoimced  plainness  of  her  companion's  face 
and  attire. 

George  Chilcott  came  through  the  open  case- 
ment to  greet  them  with  an  acute  sensation  of 
relief  and  pleasure ;  he  had  been  in  the  shadow  of 
disgrace  with  his  own  womenkind  all  day,  and 
it  was  agreeable  to  meet  the  sunshine  of  Lady 
Grace's  charming  smile. 

"Do  forgive  us  for  turning  up  at  this  unseason- 
able hour.  I  assure  you  we  were  going  to  ring 
at  the  front  door-bell.  But  we're  off  to-day; 
Grace  to  town  by  the  afternoon  train,  and  I  to 
motor  with  Bob.  So  as  I'd  made  up  my  mind 
to  come  over  before  we  left,  and  have  a  look  at  the 
gees,  why  here  we  are!"  cried  Mrs.  Rait  heartily. 

"I  disclaim  all  responsibility,"  said  Lady  Grace 
gaily. 

At  this  moment  old  Mrs.  Chilcott,  attended 
by  Clara,  came  roimd  the  comer  of  the  house 
upon  them,  as  they  stood  in  the  centre  of  the 
path. 

Both  ladies  wore  the  severe  and  mournful  aspect 
of  persons  who  have  but  recently  participated 
in  a  painful  scene;  and  as  neither  was  versed  in 
the  art  of  disguising  her  feelings,  both  continued 
to  wear  it,  so  that  the  greeting  and  shaking  hands 
with  Mrs.  Rait  and   the   presentation  of  Lady 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  157 

Grace  to  old  Mrs.  Chilcott,  whom  she  had  not  pre- 
viously met,  were  but  melancholy  ceremonies. 

Mrs.  Ralt's  cheerful  explanations  of  her  early 
intrusion  were  received  with  mournful  incredu- 
lity by  Clara  and  chilling  gravity  by  her  mother, 
and  George  cut  them  short. 

"We'll  go  at  once.  Excuse  me,  I'll  get  a  hat." 
He  dashed  in  and  dashed  out  again.  "It's  only  a 
few  yards  to  the  stables — but  as  you  are  in  a 
hurry " 

"I  think  the  garden  is  far  more  in  my  line," 
said  Lady  Grace,  "perhaps  I  may  be  allowed  to 
wait  for  you  here?"  she  looked  at  Mrs.  Chilcott 
for  permission. 

Mrs.  Rait  was  about  to  protest,  but  she  sud- 
denly recollected  that  for  the  success  of  her 
plans  it  might  be  as  well  that  Lady  Grace  should 
make  acquaintance  with  her  destined  mother-in- 
law. 

"Well — ^we  sha'n't  be  long.  In  fact,  we  daren't 
be  long,"  she  shouted  over  her  shoulder  as  she 
strode  off  beside  the  squire. 

"Something  disagreeable  has  happened," 
thought  Lady  Grace,  who  had  observed  that 
George  did  not  look  at  his  relatives,  and  who 
read  the  expression  of  their  faces  very  clearly; 
and  she  exerted  herself  to  make  conversation 
of  the  kind  she  thought  they  would  prefer. 

"How  very  beautiful  your  garden  is  looking." 

"It  is  considered  pretty,  I  believe,"  said  Mrs. 


158  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

Chilcott  sternly,  as  though  she  had  no  opinion 
on  the  matter  personally.  "Of  course  we  do  not 
pretend  to  compare  it  with  the  gardens  at  the 
Abbey." 

"I  think  your  roses  are  even  finer.  What 
a  magnificent  Niphetos.  It  is  my  favourite 
rose." 

"My  son  is  a  great  gardener.  He  gives  a  great 
deal  of  attention  to  his  rose-trees." 

"It  is  an  odd  thing  for  a  gentleman  to  do," 
said  Clara  solemnly. 

" It  is  a  fascinating  study.  I  used  to  bud  roses," 
said  Lady  Grace. 

"Do  you  live  in  the  country?"  said  Clara.  ' 

"Alas,  no!  I  live  in  a  small  and  solitary  flat 
in  town,  to  which  I  am  returning  to-day." 

"Then  you  cannot  have  much  opportunity  for 
gardening.' 

"I  have  none  at  all  now,  I  am  sorry  to  say!" 

"I  should  have  thought  a  house  would  have 
been  more  private  than  a  flat,  if  you  live  alone," 
said  Miss  Clara. 

"You  are  quite  right,"  said  Lady  Grace,  smiling, 
"but  a  flat  has  one  convenience — some  people 
think  it  the  only  one — ^you  can  shut  it  up  and 
go  away." 

Neither  of  her  auditors  smiled. 

"Then  I  cannot  see  the  good  of  having  one,  if 
it  is  no  more  use  than  that,"  said  Clara. 

"Nobody  cares  to  stay  at  home,   I   believe, 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  159 

nowadays,"  said  Mrs.  Chilcott,  without  relaxing 
her  disapproving  attitude. 

"My  brother  is  going  to  stay  in  a  flat  in  Lon- 
don next  week  with  our  relative  Colonel  David 
Moore,"  said  Clara;  "it  is  only  a  furnished  flat. 
I  do  not  think  he  will  be  so  comfortable  as  in  his 
own  house." 

"I  am  quite  sure  he  won't,"  said  Lady  Grace. 

"It's  in  Buckingham  Gate  Mansions,  and  it 
belongs  to  a  brother  officer,  who  has  lent  it  to 
Colonel  Moore." 

"A  most  convenient  situation,"  said  Lady 
Grace  politely.  * '  Mine  is  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Park — a  long  way  off." 

"I  wonder  you  like  to  live  the  wrong  side  of 
the  Park,"  said  Clara  impressively. 

"The  wrong  side?  I  don't  know  why  I  do," 
said  Lady  Grace  vaguely ;  and  thought  to  herself, 
"after  all,  I  rather  wish  I  had  gone  with  the 
others." 

Mrs.  Rait  did  not,  as  she  declared,  dare  to  linger 
unduly  over  her  inspection  of  the  Bridescombe 
stud;  but  walking  to  the  farm  was  an  affair  of 
ten  minutes,  and  the  Shire  horses  had  to  be 
examined  and  discussed,  so  that  nearly  three 
quarters  of  an  hour  elapsed  before  her  return, 
during  which  time  even  Lady  Grace,  who  was 
usually  proficient  in  small  talk,  had  exhausted 
her  conversational  powers.  She  gave  vent  to 
something  very  like  a  sigh  of  relief  when  her 


160  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

friend  appeared,  somewhat  overheated  by  her 
rapid  progress,  and  chatting  loudly  with  the 
stalwart  squire,  whose  good  humour  had  been 
obviously  restored  in  her  cheerful  company. 

"Must  you  go?  I  wish  you  would  stay  to 
luncheon,"  he  cried  with  much  sincerity;  for  in- 
deed he  dreaded  the  coming  meal,  when  he  must 
presently  sit  opposite  his  offended  parent,  with 
his  disapproving  sister  on  one  side,  and  his  pen- 
itent child — or,  worse  still,  her  vacant  chair  to  re- 
mind him  of  her  misdeeds — on  the  other.  ' '  Won't 
you  stay?" 

"No,  no,  it  would  be  more  than  our  places  are 
worth,"  said  Mrs.  Rait,  shaking  hands  all  roimd 
without  delay.  "Come,  Grace,  we  must  run  for 
it,  and  it's  not  weather  for  running." 

"You  had  better  go  through  the  shrubbery. 
I'll  show  you  the  way.  It  is  by  far  the  coolest 
path,"  cried  George  zealously. 

"Thank  you,  we  will.  By  the  bye,  where  is 
Grace's  little  friend?"  said  Mrs.  Rait,  suddenly 
recollecting  her  deep-laid  schemes. 

George  paused  imperceptibly  before  muttering 
that  she  was  not  very  well,  and  his  mutter  was 
overborne  by  Clara's  conscientious  explanation. 

"Lady  Grace  has  already  asked  for  her.  I  was 
sorry  to  be  obliged  to  tell  her  that  Lily  has  not 
been  at  all  good,"  she  said,  with  a  severity  in- 
tended for  Lily's  father.  "And  she  is  consequently 
in  disgrace,  and  has  had  to  be  punished." 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  161 

"I  can  feel  for  her.  We  shall  be  in  disgrace 
when  we  get  back,"  cried  Mrs.  Rait,  with  her 
loudest  laugh.  But  Lady  Grace  looked  straight 
before  her  with  an  expression  which  was  not 
lost  upon  those  piercing  black  eyes  set  in  Mrs. 
Chilcott's  wrinkled  face.  Her  continuous  sharp- 
ness had  hitherto  failed  to  shake  her  guest's 
unfailing  graciousness  in  the  very  slightest  degree, 
and  Mrs.  Chilcott  was  piqued;  she  thought  she 
perceived  a  vulnerable  point  at  last  and  attacked 
without  hesitation. 

' '  I  suppose  you  disapprove  of  our  old-fashioned 
methods.  I  believe  nowadays  modem  children 
escape  all  discipline,  and  are  allowed  to  do  and 
say  exactly  what  they  choose,"  she  said  with 
almost  an  offensive  intonation. 

Lady  Grace  looked  at  her  calmly.  "I  disap- 
prove of  the  theory  of  pimishment — ^yes,"  she 
said  lightly  but  very  distinctly,  ' '  I  believe  it  to  be 
a  relic  of  barbarism.  Reform,  not  revenge — is 
my  motto.  But  I  dare  say  I  am  quite  wrong 
you  know,"  she  added  with  a  charming  smile. 
"There  are  generally  two  sides  to  every  question, 
aren't  there?" 

George  perceived  that  Mrs.  Chilcott  was  angry; 
but  his  admiration  for  Lady  Grace  rose  very  high. 
He  felt  none  of  the  discomfort  and  alarm  which 
had  assailed  him  in  former  years,  on  the  rare 
occasions  when  Delia  had  encountered  his  auto- 
cratic parent.    Delia  had  then  shown  hot  sparks 


162  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

of  a  temper  hardly  inferior  to  Mrs.  Chilcott's 
own;  and,  losing  her  self-control,  had  taken  part 
in  the  violent  scenes  which  had  embittered  exist- 
ence at  Bridescombe  since  George's  earliest  recol- 
lections. She  had  declared  that  her  only  safety 
lay  in  flight,  and  during  her  lifetime  avoided  her 
husband's  family  as  much  as  possible.  But  here 
was  different  mettle.  Lady  Grace  was  cold, 
smiling,  gracious;  her  self-command  was  absolute. 
He  realised  that  here  was  a  woman  fully  capable 
of  fighting  Lily's  battles  or  her  own,  without 
growing  angry  at  all. 

"I  suppose  you  are  a  Radical,"  gasped  Mrs. 
Chilcott. 

"I  suppose  I  am,"  said  Lady  Grace,  smiling 
yet  more  graciously.  "Not  when  they  are  in  the 
majority,  however.  I  am  always  for  the  weaker 
side."  Her  calm  blue  eyes  met  the  fiery  gaze  of 
George's  mother,  and  Mrs.  Chilcott  knew  that 
for  the  second  time  that  day  she  had  encoun- 
tered a  spirit  stronger  than  her  own. 

"What  do  you  think  of  her,  mamma?"  asked 
Clara,  before  the  two  ladies  and  their  escort  were 
well  out  of  sight. 

"I  think  she  is  a  very  artful  woman,"  said 
Mrs.  Chilcott  angrily.  "After  the  way  in  which 
you  told  me  she  behaved  the  other  day,  pet- 
ting Lily,  and  driving  home  in  the  dogcart  with 
George.  I  consider  her  coming  over  here  just 
another  proof  that  she  is  making  up  to  him  in  the 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  163 

most  barefaced  manner.  But  I  hope  I  showed 
her  that  her  foolish  attempts  at  flattering  me 
made  no  impression,  even  though  she  does  happen 
to  be  the  daughter  of  an  ex-Cabinet  minister." 

* '  Her  fatherwas  a  very  celebrated  man,  though," 
said  Miss  Clara,  awestruck  at  her  mother's  con- 
tempt for  the  great  Lord  Magloire's  only  child. 

"Of  course  he  was  in  his  day.  But  that  is  no 
reason  why  his  daughter  should  be  languid  and 
affected,"  said  Mrs.  Chilcott  sharply.  "He  left 
no  fortune  at  all.  Every  one  knows  that,  and  a 
great  many  things  were  said  about  him  both 
before  and  after  his  death." 

"I  thought  she  must  be  badly  off  to  live  all  by 
herself  in  a  flat,"  said  Clara,  and  she  beamed 
with  odd  satisfaction ;  taking  almost  equal  pleas- 
ure in  the  fact  of  Lady  Grace's  poverty  and  her 
own  perspicuity  in  discovering  it. 

Catherine,  too,  had  an  unpleasant  quarter  of  an 
hour  to  face  at  Bridescombe,  when  she  sat  opposite 
Mrs.  Chilcott  and  Clara  in  the  morning-room, 
after  delivering  her  invitation  to  her  godchild. 
But  expostulations,  satire,  and  indignation  were 
now  alike  wasted  upon  George,  who  would  not, 
after  all,  permit  Catherine  to  bear  the  brunt  of 
battle  unsupported;  but  first  announced  his 
determination  that  Lily  should  accept  the  invi- 
tation immediately,  and  then  sat  in  sullen  silence 
while  the  child's  preparations  were  being  made; 


164  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

and  while  Catherine  endeavoured  in  vain  to 
soften  the  indignation  of  her  aunt  and  cousin, 
by  dwelling  upon  her  own  loneliness,  and  the 
kindness  it  would  be  to  her  to  spare  her  this 
little  companion  tintil  Philippa's  return.  One 
barbed  arrow  from  Airs.  Chilcott's  inexhaustible 
quiver  flew  straight  to  her  niece's  heart. 

"I  wonder  you  should  care  to  undertake  the 
charge  of  another  child  when  every  one  knows 
you  can't  manage  your  own,  Catherine." 

Poor  Catherine  was  white  and  trembling  by 
the  time  she  had  uttered  her  farewells,  and  found 
herself  seated  by  George's  side  in  the  dogcart, 
with  Lily  squeezed  between  them,  and  her  minute 
trunk  on  the  back  seat  with  the  groom. 

Lily  herself  was  as  silent  as  her  elders; 
frightened,  yet  possessed  by  a  secret  joy  and 
amazement. 

Was  it  possible  that  her  dream  of  dreams  was 
after  all  to  be  fulfilled,  and  that  she  was  going 
to  stay  at  Shepherd's  Rest  with  her  godmother,  in 
her  wonderful  cottage  full  of  books,  and  away 
from  her  Aunt  Clara? 

Though  she  clung  to  her  father's  neck  when 
he  set  her  down  at  the  rustic  gate  and  kissed  her 
very  seriously  and  bade  her  be  a  good  girl — it 
was  with  an  almost  incredulous  sensation  of  bliss 
that  she  saw  him  actually  depart,  leaving  her 
behind.  Up  to  the  last  moment,  and  even  after 
she  had  seen  her  small  trunk  borne  upstairs  to 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  165 

the  bedroom  under  the  brown  eaves,  Lily  had 
feared  he  might  change  his  mind,  and  decide  upon 
some  less  extraordinary  form  of  reprisal  for  her 
misdeeds. 

Her  grandmother's  parting  speech,  that  to  be 
sent  away  from  home  as  a  punishment  was  the 
most  fearful  disgrace  that  could  befall  a  little 
girl,  weighed  down  her  mind  with  a  secret  sense  of 
guilt  that  made  her  even  paler  and  quieter  than 
usual  as  she  followed  Catherine  into  the  cottage. 

She  was  awed  by  the  gentleness  with  which 
her  godmother  lifted  her  presently  on  to  her 
knee,  and  put  both  arms  round  her,  and  laid  her 
own  tired  face  against  the  child's  soft  dark  curls. 
Was  it  possible  that  Cousin  Catherine  was  crying? 

Lily's  self-control  gave  way  upon  this  convic- 
tion and  she  burst  into  tears  herself,  and  sobbed 
passionately  with  her  thin  arms  tightening  con- 
vulsively round  Catherine's  neck.  She  thought 
it  must  be  her  own  wickedness  that  had  caused 
those  tears  to  flow. 

"Oh  I  will  be  good,  I  will  be  good.  I'm  sorry, 
indeed  I'm  sorry,"  she  cried,  hiding  her  face 
against  that  soft  bosom  in  an  outburst  of  childish 
shame  and  misery. 

George  came  to  Shepherd's  Rest  to  bid  his 
little  girl  farewell  before  going  to  town,  and  was 
startled  to  come  suddenly  upon  his  child  flying 
like  the  wind  across  the  lawn,  her  dark  curls 
blowing  about  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  bright 


166  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

with  laughter.  He  flushed  a  dull  red  all  over 
his  heavy  face  when  she  stopped  short  at  sight 
of  him;  he  could  not  help  seeing  that  the  merri- 
ment died  out  of  her  wide  eyes, 

"Are  you  afraid  of  me,  Lily?"  he  asked. 

"No,  papa,"  she  said  nervously,  but  her  ner- 
vousness was  explained  by  the  faltering  question, 
"Have  you  come  to  take  me  away?" 

"No,  to  say  good-bye,"  said  George,  and  his 
heart  ached  to  see  the  quick  look  of  relief. 

"David  is  right,  she  has  been  unhappy,"  he 
thought  sadly. 

He  took  some  comfort,  however,  in  the  demon- 
stration of  affection  and  welcome  which  followed 
his  assurances  that  she  was  to  stay  at  Shepherd's 
Rest  for  the  present,  and  they  walked  about 
hand  in  hand,  while  she  showed  him,  with  new- 
bom  importance,  her  favourite  comers  of  the 
garden. 

David  followed  with  Catherine,  and  was  well 
content  with  the  improvement  in  Lily's  looks, 
and  the  obvious  success  of  his  experiment. 

"After  all,"  he  said,  "it's  not  very  wonderful 
she  should  be  happy  here.  It's  a  child's  Paradise. 
What  a  bower  of  beauty  you  have  managed  to 
make  of  poor  old  Tedbum's  farm." 

"You  should  see  her  dairy,"  said  George 
proudly,  "and  her  new  cider-press.  She  beats 
me  there,  I  can  tell  you.  There  isn't  a  farm  in 
the  country,  of  the  size,  that  can  hold  a  candle  to 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  167 

hers.  I  would  never  believe  it  could  be  the  work 
of  a  woman." 

This  was  the  highest  praise  George  knew  how 
to  bestow,  and  he  gave  utterance  to  it  with  honest 
warmth. 

"Oh,  George,  I  owe  nearly  all  I  have  learnt  to 
you,"  said  Catherine,  who  was  cast  in  far  too 
feminine  a  mould  to  resent  any  such  assumption 
of  manly  superiority;  and  who  therefore  took 
her  cousin's  praise  as  it  was  meant,  in  simple  good 
faith. 

She  led  the  way  through  her  red-tiled  house- 
place,  and  down  the  worn  step  beneath  the  sunken 
archway,  into  her  dairy.  Here  stood  rows  of 
bright  tin  pails  holding  newly-scalded  milk  cov- 
ered with  wrinkled  yellow  cream;  and  the  great 
red  earthen  bowl  where  the  clotted  cream  already 
skimmed  was  heaped  in  rich  and  luscious  folds. 

The  wooden  chum,  scoured  to  whiteness,  lay 
sunning  itself  on  the  high  window-sill,  where  the 
rays  penetrated  through  the  green  curtain  of 
leaves,  into  the  fresh  cool  twilight  of  grey  stone 
arches,  granite  flags,  and  rows  of  slated  shelves. 

A  low  doorway  in  the  north  wall  led  through 
a  dim  porch  into  the  farmyard;  and  here  George 
began  a  tour  of  inspection  which  only  ended  at 
tea-time,  when  they  were  summoned  to  a  feast  of 
strawberries  and  home-baked  cakes,  spread  upon 
a  little  white-covered  table  in  the  porch. 

Soon  after  partaking  of  this  refreshment  the 


168  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

two  men  took  their  leave  and  went  away  together, 
pausing  simultaneously  to  wave  farewell  before 
turning  the  comer  of  the  lane  which  hid  from 
view  the  garden  where  Catherine  stood,  in  her 
grey  gown  and  shady  hat,  holding  Lily's  hand. 

In  their  ears  rang  her  parting  words  of  entreaty : 
"I  am  taking  care  of  your  child.  Do  what  you 
can  for  mine." 

"Trust  me.  If  there  were  anything,  anything 
— but  what  could  she  want?"  David  had  said, 
looking  kindly  and  laughing  into  those  wistful 
hazel  eyes.  But  George  had  wrung  Catherine's 
hand  in  silence.  He  knew  not  how  to  express  the 
gratitude  which  filled  him,  save  by  that  mighty 
and  painful  grip. 


CHAPTER  X 

The  Adelstanes'  house  in  Belgrave  Square  had 
been  newly  painted  in  the  spring,  and  conse- 
quently presented  a  clean  white  front  to  the 
passers-by,  and  was  further  ornamented  by 
window-boxes  and  hanging  baskets  of  pink  ivy 
geraniums,  and  gay  awnings  of  striped  red  and 
white  canvas. 

The  green  leaves  fluttering  across  the  black 
trunks  of  the  trees  in  the  Square  were  still  fresh 
and  bright,  and  afforded  an  agreeable  shade  to 
Philippa  when  she  walked  round  and  roimd  the 
gravel  paths  in  the  morning,  with  Roper,  to 
exercise  Augusta's  French  pug. 

Lady  Adelstane  had  taken  great  pleasure,  the 
day  after  her  arrival  in  town,  in  driving  her 
young  cousin  round  to  various  dressmakers,  tai- 
lors, and  milliners,  and  ordering  clothes  and  hats 
for  her;  which  she  did  with  the  more  liberality 
since  it  was  quite  understood  that  the  bills  were 
to  be  sent  in  to  Catherine. 

The  subsequent  fittings  rendered  necessary 
by  these  orders,  however,  Augusta  had  neither 
leisure  nor  inclination  to  attend;  so,  since  Roper 

169 


170  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

was  too  inexperienced  a  Londoner  to  be  of  much 
use,  she  was  obHged  to  send  her  own  maid  with 
Philippa,  and  highly  inconvenient  she  presently- 
found  such  obligation  to  be. 

"It  gives  her  an  excuse,  you  see,  to  be  out 
whenever  I  want  her,"  she  lamented  to  Lady 
Grace;  "besides  which  it  turns  out  that  Roper 
does  not  know  her  way  about  London  at  all.  I 
cannot  think  what  possessed  Catherine  to  send 
such  a  fool,  Philippa  must  walk  out  with  some- 
body. I  cannot  have  her  with  me  for  ever,  you 
know,  and  she  finds  it  tedious  to  go  out  in  the 
Square." 

"She  is  a  very  pretty  girl;  I  had  no  idea  she 
was  so  handsome.  You  have  dressed  her  quite 
charmingly,"  said  Lady  Grace.  "It  is  extraor- 
dinary what  a  difference  clothes  make.  I  admire 
her  although  she  does  not  like  me.  It  amuses  me 
to  see  her  draw  her  brows  together  whenever  I 
appear." 

"The  fact  is,  she  is  jealous  of  you,"  said  Augusta, 
with  great  complacency.  "She  cannot  bear  any- 
body to  speak  to  me  but  herself.  It  is  really 
embarrassing  at  times,  for  you  know  one  can 
talk  of  next  to  nothing  before  a  girl  of  that  age." 
Augusta  was  uneasily  conscious  that  Philippa's 
great  blue  eyes  had  been  fixed  wonderingly  upon 
her  already  during  many  a  pleasant  chat  with 
an  acquaintance.  "I  wish  Cecil  were  in  town 
to  take  her  off  my  hands,  instead  of  dawdling 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  171 

away  his  time  over  imaginary  business  at  Welwys- 
bere.  He  could  take  her  to  see  the  sights.  Imag- 
ine, she  wanted  to  go  to  the  Hippodrome!  She 
is  mad  about  performing  monkeys  and  things  of 
that  sort,  and  there  I  had  to  send  her — she  is 
very  insistent — ^with  Holland  and  her  own  old 
dunderhead  of  a  maid,  whom  I  am  positively 
afraid  to  send  about  with  her.  And  I  was  going 
to  one  of  that  delightful  German's  lectures  with 
Florrie  Brooke,  where  I  could  not  possibly  take 
her,  you  know,  as  Florrie  wasn't  even  sure  what 
it  was  about." 

"And  what  was  it  about?" 

"I  forget  now — it  was  the  day  before  yesterday. 
But  it  was  a  great  take-in.  Quite  dull  and  hum- 
drum. Nothing  risqu^  at  all.  However,  every 
one  was  there." 

•*So  I  heard." 

"I  have  taken  Philippa  twice  to  the  Opera, 
but  she  hates  music,  and  got  a  headache  from  the 
bad  air,  and  looked  like  a  ghost  next  day.  Really 
girls  are  very  tiresome  things.  And  now  she  has 
taken  it  into  her  head  that  she  mustn't  go  to  the 
Ltmdys*  because  she  promised  her  mother  she 
wouldn't  go  to  dances.  I  do  think  it  very  odd 
of  Catherine  to  exact  such  promises  from  her 
when  she  is  under  my  wing.  She  ought  to  have 
trusted  to  me.  I  said  I  wouldn't  take  her  to 
dances.  Of  course  I  didn't  mean  childish  things 
like  the  Lundys',"  added  Augusta,  hastily.    "The 


172  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

fact  is,  Philippa  is  too  old  and  too  young.  I  can't 
send  her  to  bed  when  I  dine  out,  and  I  can't 
take  her  with  me;  so  there  she  sits  by  herself, 
with  nothing  to  do,  making  me  feel  as  though 
I  were  neglecting  her." 

"She  ought  to  have  a  governess,"  said  Lady 
Grace,  sympathetically.  "After  all,  one  really 
only  begins  one's  education  at  sixteen." 

"Her  mother  has  always  taught  her  herself, 
so  absurdly  out  of  date,  though  I  must  say  she 
speaks  French  very  well,"  said  Augusta,  dis- 
contentedly. "Of  course,  Catherine  was  brought 
up  in  France,  so  there  is  nothing  in  that." 

"It's  no  credit  to  her  then,"  said  Lady  Grace, 
with  a  twinkle. 

"Not  in  the  least.  But  the  tiresome  thing  is, 
I  stipulated  she  was  to  have  holidays  here,  not 
dreaming  what  a  bore  they  would  be.  Still,  I 
might  get  a  companion,"  she  said,  brightening 
up.  "I  have  often  thought  of  having  one  myself. 
They  write  letters  and  do  tiresome  things  for  one. 
It  would  be  a  very  good  idea,  Grace.  I  will  see 
about  it  immediately.  It  would  be  delightful 
for  Philippa,  and  convenient  for  me." 

Augusta  generally  acted  on  impulse,  and  car- 
ried out  her  caprices  without  giving  herself  time 
for  reflection;  a  habit  which  enabled  her  to  be- 
lieve herself  a  remarkably  prompt  and  practical 
person. 

On   the   very   afternoon   of   her  conversation 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  173 

with  Grace  Trumoin  she  drove  to  a  foreign  regis- 
try office,  and  engaged  a  middle-aged  French- 
woman who  happened  to  be  personally  known 
to  the  proprietor  of  the  establishment,  and  to 
be  possessed  of  the  highest  personal  references 
from  her  last  situation. 

Augusta  was  enchanted  by  her  good  luck 
when  she  interviewed  this  lady,  and  found  her 
not  only  presentable  and  well-mannered,  but 
willing  to  enter  upon  her  duties  immediately. 

It  was  settled  that  she  should  come  on  the 
morrow,  and  Augusta  looked  forward  with  some 
apprehension  to  breaking  the  news  to  Philippa. 

A  constant  stream  of  visitors  from  five  to  seven 
made  it  impossible  for  her  to  have  any  private 
conversation  with  her  young  guest  during  the 
remainder  of  the  afternoon;  though  Philippa 
was  present  in  the  drawing-room  during  these 
hours,  embarrassing  her  cousin  by  her  constant 
attention  to  the  conversation,  and  habit  of 
abruptly  stating  the  truth,  the  whole  truth, 
and  nothing  but  the  truth,  whenever  a  question 
was  by  any  chance  addressed  to  herself. 

"She  is  very  farouche,"  sighed  Lady  Adelstane 
across  the  low  tea-table  to  Lady  Kentisbury, 
whom  she  had  invited,  as  she  told  Grace,  entirely 
for  Philippa's  sake,  since  she  had  no  personal 
inclination  towards  dowdy  women  given  to  good 
works.  "She  is  farouche,  but  such  a  dear!  And 
she  leads  such  a  dull  life  in  the  depths  of  Devon, 


174  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

and  her  mother  never  stirs  from  home.  I  do 
want  her  to  have  a  good  time  while  she  is  with 
me,  but  I  haven't  an  idea  how  to  begin.  Do 
advise  me.  I  know  less  than  nothing  about 
girls." 

"Surely,  she  ought  to  be  in  the  schoolroom," 
said  Lady  Kentisbury,  looking  at  Philippa  with 
a  maternal  expression,  and  shaking  her  head. 

"Of  course  she  ought;  but  she  is  being  brought 
up  so  oddly,"  said  Augusta,  apologetically,  "that 
really  ordinary  rules  don't  apply  to  her.  Her 
mother  has  educated  her  entirely  herself,  so  of 
course  she  is  more  advanced  than  girls  who  are 
left  to  governesses  and  people.  But  she  has  seen 
nothing  of  girls  and  boys  of  her  own  age.  I 
assure  you  Catherine  has  guarded  her  like  a 
dragon." 

"So  I  have  heard,"  said  Lady  Kentisbury. 
"Lady  Sarah  tells  me  that  she  has  devoted  her 
whole  life  to  her  child.    How  charming  that  is!" 

"I  am  sure  you  have  done  the  same,"  said 
Augusta,  vague  but  complimentary.  "And  I 
do  hope  you  will  let  her  see  something  of  your 
young  people  while  she  is  with  me." 

Lady  Kentisbury'-  was  nothing  loth,  and,  in 
fact,  agreed  to  the  proposal  very  warmly,  and 
invited  Philippa  to  luncheon  on  the  very  next 
day,  for  Lady  Sarah  Adelstane,  who  was  her 
great-aunt  by  marriage,  had,  with  her  customary 
promptness,  been  beforehand  with  Augusta,  and 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  175 

hinted  that  her  grand-niece  might  search  the 
United  Kingdom  in  vain  for  a  more  suitable 
daughter-in-law  than  Philippa. 

"Her  mother  is  a  saint,"  the  old  lady  had 
remarked,  "and  the  girl  has  never  been  out  of 
her  sight  day  or  night.  She  is  as  innocent  as  a 
baby,  and  as  pretty  as  a  picture.  Of  course  you 
will  say  it  is  odd  she  should  be  trusted  to  Augusta. 
But  the  fact  is  that  was  my  doing.  I  overper- 
suaded  her  mother.  Girls  with  Philippa's  looks 
and  Philippa's  expectations  don't  grow  on  every 
gooseberry  bush  in  the  country,  you  know,  and 
hobbledehoys  do ;  and  I  had  no  idea  of  her  being 
snapped  up  by  the  parson's  son  or  some  one  of 
that  kind.  Not  that  the  parson  at  Welwysbere 
has  a  son,  but  the  principle  is  the  same.  One 
never  knows.  The  women  of  our  family  ripen 
early,  and  she  will  marry  young  or  not  at  all.  I 
know  the  breed,  my  love,  very  well.  So  I  per- 
suaded her  mother  to  send  her  here.  But  between 
you  and  me,  my  love,  Augusta  is  the  last  person 
in  Europe  I  would  have  entrusted  her  to,  if  I  were 
not  so  very  sure  of  the  girl  herself.  She  has  been 
over-mothered  and  a  trifle  spoilt,  but  she  has  the 
very  highest  principles,  and  all  the  strength  of 
mind  which  so  many  young  men  seem  to  lack 
nowadays,"  said  Lady  Sarah,  significantly. 

"They  do,  indeed,"  said  Lady  Kentisbury,  with 
a  sigh.  There  was  no  need  for  explanation.  Both 
ladies  were  aware  of  the  possibility  of  inherited 


176  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

tendencies  in  the  young  Marquis  which  rendered  it 
highly  desirable  that  his  wife  should  be  a  person  of 
principle  and  character.  ' '  It  would  be  very  charm- 
ing, dear  Aunt  Sarah,  but  of  course  it  could  not  be  at 
once,  as  she  is  so  young.  However,  an  engagement 
steadies  a  boy  more  than  anything  in  the  world." 

"Why  should  it  not  be  at  once,"  said  Lady 
Sarah,  impatiently.  * '  People  always  put  off  that 
sort  of  thing  until  the  day  after  the  fair.  Do  but 
think  of  the  daughter-in-law  my  nephew  Rye 
presented  to  my  poor  sister  Maria  the  day  he 
came  of  age.  As  I  told  her,  I  blamed  her  own 
shortsightedness.  She  should  have  found  him 
a  suitable  wife,  tied  him  up  young,  and  seen  that 
he  had  a  legitimate  heir.  After  that  young 
people  must  please  themselves.  One  has  put 
them  in  the  right  way,  you  know,  and  done  one's 
duty  by  the  family,  and  one  can't  dry-nurse 
them  for  ever.  The  rest  depends  on  the  wife. 
Philippa  is  her  father's  daughter.  I  don't  know 
that  I  need  say  much  more  than  that,"  said 
Lady  Sarah,  and  a  genuine  tear  shone  in  her  blue 
eyes,  which  were  still  bright,  though  set  in  a 
network  of  wrinkles   beneath    snow-white  hair. 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Lady  Kentisbury,  warmly. 
"I  always  looked  up  to  him  as  the  most  nearly 
perfect  human  being  I  ever  met." 

"  He  was  a  man,  take  him  for  all  in  all, 
I  shall  not  look  upon  his  like  again," 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  177 

said  Lady  Sarah,  and  the  tears  gave  place  to  a 
smile.  "My  love,  I  must  be  growing  old  at  last, 
since  I  have  taken  to  quoting  Shakespeare.  How- 
ever, my  poor  Philip  was  not  so  much  a  man  as  a 
rock;  and,  now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  rocks  are 
apt  to  be  heavy,  though  very  solid  to  lean  against. 
Philippa  is  solid  and  heavy." 

"Heavy!"    said    Lady    Kentisbury,    alarmed.  /\ 
"If  she  is  not  amusing,  I  am  afraid  Charlie  will 
never " 

"My  dear  Jane,  wait  till  he  sees  her.  A  boy 
of  that  age  finds  a  pretty  girl  amusing  when  she 
says  'How  do  you  do?'  And,  for  heaven's  sake, 
rescue  her  from  Augusta  as  often  as  you  can!" 

"Lady  Adelstane  has  asked  me  to  tea,"  said 
Lady  Kentisbury. 

"Dejd,,"  said  Lady  Sarah,  with  a  laugh. 

Philippa  was  very  much  pleased  to  accept 
Lady  Kentisbury 's  invitation  to  luncheon,  after 
a  dutiful  reference  to  her  cousin  for  permission, 
which  bored  Augusta,  and  pleased  her  would-be 
hostess. 

"My  daughter  is  a  year  or  two  older  than  you 
are,  but  not  nearly  so  tall,"  she  said  graciously 
to  her  yotmg  relative.    "She  came  out  last  year." 

"I  wish  I  were  out,"  said  Philippa,  with  a  sigh. 

"Are  you  so  fond  of  gaiety?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Philippa,  bluntly.  "I 
have  not  tried.    But  I  should  Hke  to  go  every- 


178  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

where  with  Cousin  Augusta  very  much  indeed, 
and  I  am  obliged  to  stay  at  home  by  myself 
because  I  am  not  out,  so  the  evenings  are  very 
dull,  as  I  do  not  care  for  reading.  And  it  is  very 
tiresome  always  walking  with  a  maid." 

"We  must  try  and  get  up  some  boy  and 
girl  parties  for  you,"  said  Lady  Kentisbury, 
sympathetically. 

"My  mother  made  me  promise  not  to  go  to  a 
dance,"  said  Philippa,  discontentedly. 

"Are  you  not  going  to  the  Limdys*?  I  imder- 
stood  you  were  to  go." 

"I  can't.  I  promised  mummie  I  wouldn't. 
I  have  told  Cousin  Augusta,"  said  Philippa,  and 
her  face  assumed  an  obstinate  expression  that 
brought  out  her  resemblance  to  Sir  Cecil  with 
odd  emphasis. 

Lady  Kentisbury  departed  with  the  convic- 
tion that  Lady  Sarah  had  correctly  described 
her  granddaughter  as  high-principled;  she  was 
naturally  unaware  of  the  impatient  rebelliousness 
underlying  Philippa's  faithful  adherence  to  her 
mother's  command;  or  of  the  indignant  remon- 
strances she  had  addressed  to  Catherine  on  the 
subject. 

Philippa  was  depressed,  in  spite  of  the  pleasure 
which  Lady  Kentisbury 's  invitation  caused  her. 

She  was  already  beginning,  as  Lady  Sarah 
had  foreseen,  to  be  disillusioned  concerning  her 
adored  cousin,  to  turn  the  severe  gaze  of   her 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  179 

observant  youth — now  diverted  from  her  parent — 
in  the  direction  of  Augusta.  There  were  many- 
points  concerning  Augusta  which  were  ill  adapted 
to  sustain  such  an  inspection. 

It  was  scarcely  to  be  wondered  at  that  her 
hostess  was  becoming  almost  nervous  in  the 
presence  of  this  tall,  severe  young  vestal,  who 
looked  her  through  and  through  with  grave  blue 
eyes,  and  faithfully  corrected  her  when  she 
detected  her  in  the  slightest  inaccuracy. 

•'Really  she  is  worse  than  Cecil,"  thought 
Augusta,  peevishly;  but  she  could  not  help 
discovering  that  Philippa  was  a  great  deal  more 
clear-sighted  than  the  solemn,  handsome  gentle- 
man whom  she  so  nearly  resembled. 

Augusta's  oldest  friend  and  most  constant 
adorer,  Major  Cymbert,  was  the  last  of  her  callers 
to  leave,  and  as  he  stayed  late  and  she  was  dining 
out  early  she  had  to  hasten  to  her  room  to  dress 
the  instant  he  departed.  Thither,  as  usual,  she 
felt  obliged  to  invite  Philippa  to  accompany  her, 
though  the  presence  of  a  child  of  sixteen  may  be 
sometimes  embarrassing  at  the  toilet  of  a  lady  of 
forty  bent  upon  making  the  most  of  herself;  and 
Augusta  was  often  hard  put  to  it  for  excuses 
to  get  rid  of  Philippa  whilst  she  administered 
the  finishing  touches  to  the  picture  she  saw 
reflected  in  her  mirror.  But  the  custom  had 
begun  at  the  Abbey,  where  her  young  cousin's 
innocent  admiration  of  her  charms  had  flattered 


180  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

Augusta's  vanity ;  and  it  was  not  easy  to  abandon 
it  now  she  had  tired  of  its  continuance  without 
disappointing  and  offending  her  worshipper,  who 
was  of  a  somewhat  exacting  disposition,  and 
accustomed  besides  to  getting  her  own  way. 

"It  is  quite  a  comfort  to  me,  darling,"  said 
Augusta,  submitting  to  the  removal  of  the  larger 
portion  of  her  golden  coiffure  by  the  dexterous 
hands  of  her  maid,  and  contemplating  herself 
without  it  in  the  Dresden  mirror,  with  perfect 
calm  and  satisfaction,  "a  real  relief — that  I  shall 
not  be  obliged  to  leave  you  alone  in  the  evenings 
any  longer." 

She  reflected  that  this  was  an  excellent  way  to 
break  the  news  of  the  engagement  of  a  com- 
panion, to  Holland,  as  well  as  to  Philippa. 

Neither  could  very  well  express  before  the 
other  any  disapproval  of  her  arrangements. 

"Aren't  you  going  out  any  more?  Are  you 
going  to  stay  at  home,  for  my  sake! "  cried  Philippa 
with  the  incredulous  joy  of  reviving  faith;  and 
Holland  raised  surprised  eyes  and  looked  at  her 
mistress  in  the  glass;  her  mind  was  filled  with 
the  suspicions  begotten  of  experience. 

"My  dear!  How  could  I  throw  over  my  engage- 
ments? Unless  I  were  ill,  or  having  an  operation, 
or  something  of  that  kind,"  said  Augusta,  reprov- 
ingly. "I,  who  make  a  point  of  never  disappoint- 
ing anybody.  It  is  part  of  my  creed.  I  am  one 
of  those  people  who  can  always  be   depended 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  181 

upon.  No,  but  a  most  charming  French  lady  is 
coming,  who  will  take  you  out,  and  sit  with  you 
whenever  I  am  engaged  elsewhere,  you  know; 
and  as  you  speak  French  so  well,  you  are  certain 
to  get  on  capitally.  For  my  own  sake  I  sho\ild 
have  preferred  a  German.  I  speak  German  and 
French  and  Italian  much  about  the  same,"  said 
Augusta,  truthfully.  "But,  however,  thinking 
of  you,  I  resolved  to  engage  a  French  woman." 

"To  engage — do  you  mean  I  am  to  have  a 
governess?"  demanded  Philippa,  starting  to  her 
feet,  indignantly. 

"My  dear  Philippa,"  said  Augusta,  plaintively, 
"pray  do  not  spring  up  like  that,  you  quite  star- 
tled me.  Certainly  not  a  governess — ^you  forget 
I  promised  you  should  do  no  lessons  while  you 
were  with  me.  Against  my  better  judgment  I 
own,  but  still  to  me  a  promise  is  a  very  sacred 
thing." 

"But,  Cousin  Augusta,  you  said " 

"Holland,  you  are  pulling  my  hair,"  said 
Augusta,  "and  by  the  by  I  wish  you  would  tell 
Mrs.  Joliffe  that  the  room  next  to  Miss  Philippa's 
must  be  got  ready  for  Mme.  Minart.  Or  I  could 
see  her  myself  for  one  moment  when  I  am  dressed. 
Yes?  Forgive  me  for  interrupting  you,  Philippa. 
As  I  was  saying,  I  have  put  off  and  put  off  get- 
ting a  companion  for  myself,  and  now  at  last  I 
have  found  a  suitable  person.  These  things  take 
time  and  thought.    She  will  write  my  notes,  you 


182  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

know,  and  do  a  hundred  things  besides.  I  am  so 
terribly  overworked.  And  it  will  be  company 
for  you  in  the  evening." 

Philippa  made  no  answer.  Her  heart  swelled 
with  astonishment  and  resentment,  but  her  pride 
prevented  any  utterance  of  the  reproaches  which 
rose  to  her  lips. 

She,  who  had  moved  heaven  and  earth,  and 
sacrificed  even  her  own  mother  to  her  devoted 
affection  for  her  friend — for  in  this  light  did  her 
desire  to  visit  Augusta  present  itself  to  Philippa 
— ^to  be  calmly  relegated  to  the  society  of  a  hired 
companion,  while  Cousin  Augusta  continued  to 
pursue  her  frivolous  course,  without  troubling 
to  entertain  the  girl  whom  she  had  declared  she 
looked  upon  as  her  own  child. 

Philippa  realised  with  almost  incredulous  wrath 
that  she  had  never  in  her  life  been  treated  with 
so  little  consideration.  Her  first  impulse  was  to 
announce  her  intention  of  immediately  returning 
home,  or,  as  she  put  it  to  herself,  of  quitting 
Augusta's  roof  for  ever.  But  an  uncomfortable 
conviction,  in  the  background  of  her  thoughts, 
that  such  a  course  of  action  would  be  rather 
ptmishing  herself  than  her  inconsiderate  friend 
caused  her  to  hesitate;  and  while  she  hesitated 
Augusta  calmly  rippled  on,  assuring  her  of  the 
benefits  she  would  derive  from  Mme.  Minart's 
companionship,  and  praising  the  qualities  of 
this  paragon,  as  revealed  to  her  during  an  inter- 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  183 

view  of  rather  less  than  ten  minutes'  duration. 
Her  enthusiastic  remarks  passed  unheeded  over 
Philippa's  bent  head,  and  caused  Holland's  lip 
to  curl  with  contempt. 

"We  shall  hear  a  different  tale  this  time  next 
year,  and  probably  sooner,"  thought  the  maid  to 
herself,  for  Lady  Adelstane  changed  her  domestics 
frequently,  and  they  were  all  treasures  when  they 
first  arrived,  though  they  developed  with  strange 
unanimity  into  monsters  before  they  were  sent 
away. 

"Perhaps,  Philippa,  dearest,  you  will  go  down- 
stairs, and  ring,  and  desire  that  Mrs.  Joliffe  should 
be  sent  up  here  to  me  at  once,"  said  Augusta, 
prudently  ignoring  the  lowering  expression  of  the 
handsome  young  face.  "I  shall  certainly  be  late 
if  I  go  on  chattering  like  this,  and  when  you  are 
here  I  find  myself  talking  all  the  time.  It  is 
such  a  pleasure  to  me,  in  my  lonely  life,  to  find  a 
sympathetic  listener.  I  don't  know  what  I  shall 
do  when  you  are  gone,  darling." 

"You  will  have  Mme.  Minart,"  said  Philippa, 
unable  to  resist  this  curt  expression  of  her  resent- 
ment. "I  will  go  and  do  what  you  ask,  Cousin 
Augusta,"  and  with  the  mien  of  an  offended 
queen  she  marched  out  of  the  room. 

"How  ungrateful  girls  are!"  complained  Au- 
gusta, snatching  this  opportunity  to  improve 
the  exquisite  complexion  which  Nature  had  al- 
ready bestowed  upon  her.     "Naturally   I  only 


184  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

engaged  this  person  for  Miss  Philippa's  sake, 
and  for  yours,  Holland.  You  have  been  very- 
good  about  it,  but  of  course  it's  not  your  work 
to  be  always  taking  her  about." 

"It's  very  kind  of  you  to  think  of  me,  my  lady, 
I'm  sure,"  said  Holland,  with  a  hint  of  satire 
in  her  tone;  which  plainly  conveyed  to  her  mis- 
tress that  she  was  not  impressed  by  this  sudden 
display  of  consideration. 

"Holland  is  a  most  unpleasant  creature,"  re- 
flected Augusta;  "I  shall  certainly  get  rid  of 
her  before  long.  I  hate  a  person  with  a  nasty 
dry  manner  like  hers.  It's  very  unfortimate 
she  should  be  such  a  good  maid  and  such  an 
industrious  needlewoman.  All  good  maids  are 
disagreeable." 

Augusta  departed  for  her  dinner-party  in  a 
less  amiable  frame  of  mind  than  usual;  but  the 
dinner  proving  unexceptionable  and  the  com- 
pany pleasant,  she  presently  forgot  her  troubles, 
and  recovered  her  customary  good  spirits,  and 
satisfaction  with  herself  and  her  surroundings. 

Philippa  maintained  her  attitude  of  proud 
composure  throughout  the  solitary  meal  which 
was  served  to  her  in  the  great  dining-room,  where 
her  cousin's  tall  and  solemn  servants  punctiliously 
waited  upon  her. 

But  clear  soup,  roast  quail,  and  iced  aspara- 
gus could  not  assuage  her  wounded  feelings,  and 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  185 

even  the  giant  strawberries  from  Welwysbere 
were  only  enjoyed  mechanically. 

She  was  glad  to  find  herself  alone  in  the  draw- 
ing-room upstairs,  seated  beside  the  open  window 
in  the  pleasant  summer  twilight.  Here  she  could 
look  out  into  the  Square  and  indulge  her  feelings 
unseen. 

Her  little  cambric  handkerchief  was  presently 
wet  with  tears,  for  her  disappointment  and  grief, 
though  childish,  were  very  real. 

She  went  over  and  over  again,  in  memory, 
through  the  fond  phrases  and  flattering  assurances 
which  Augusta  had  heaped  upon  her  a  few  weeks 
since,  in  response  to  her  own  sincere  admiration. 

"If  I  had  not  thought  she  really  loved  me, 
and  liked  to  talk  to  me — that  she  was  really 
going  to  be,  as  she  promised,  my  greatest  friend 
in  all  the  world,"  sobbed  Philippa  to  herself,  "I 
do  not  think  that  only  the  pleasure  of  coming 
to  London  and  being  fashionable  and  seeing 
things  would  have  tempted  me.  I  don't  think 
so.  Of  course  I  know  mamma  believes  it  was 
only  because  I  wanted  gaiety  and  change  and 
all  that,  but  I  know  it  wasn't — only  I  couldn't 
tell  her  how  I  long  sometimes  for  a  real  com- 
panion and  friend,  to  whom  I  could  tell  every- 
thing without  getting  everlasting  good  advice 
in  return.  Poor  mamma,  I  don't  mean  that.  Of 
course  it's  her  duty  to  be  always  lecttiring,  and 
I  know  I'm  careless,  and  all  that." 


186  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

Philippa  was  sobbing  out  her  complaint  half 
aloud  in  the  darkness,  but  the  room  was  empty 
and  there  was  no  one  to  hear. 

"If  I  went  home  now,  they  would  all  feel  *I  told 
you  so,'  though  they  wouldn't  say  it.  I  won't 
go  home,  I  will  see  it  through;  only  I  can  never, 
never  feel  the  same  to  Augusta  again.  It  is  the 
climax.  These  long  lonely  evenings  have  been 
bad  enough,  but  to  have  a  stranger  thrust  upon 
me — I  wish  Cousin  Cecil  would  come  back.  She 
pretends  he  is  selfish,  but  I  know  better  now.  It 
is  she  who  is  selfish,  and  who  doesn't  speak  the 
truth,  and  who — oh,  to  think  I  am  saying  such 
things  about  her  of  all  people  in  the  world!"  and 
Philippa  was  obliged  to  admit  to  herself  that  her 
admiration  of  Augusta  had  declined  almost  as 
swiftly  as  it  had  arisen. 

"But  it  is  not  I  that  am  changeable,  it  is  not, 
it  is  not,*'  she  thought  miserably.  "I  could  al- 
most wish  it  were.  It  is  she  who  is  unworthy,  and 
who  has  failed  me;  I  won't  show  her  my  feel- 
ings, though."  Here  she  was  forced  to  swallow  an 
uneasy  suspicion  that  Augusta  would  not  greatly 
mind  if  she  did.  "I  will  go  through  to  the  end. 
But  all  my  pleasure  in  London  is  gone  now ;  no 
matter  where  I  go,  or  who  I  meet,  I  shall  never, 
never  be  the  same  again." 


CHAPTER  XI 

Mrs.  Ralt,  to  the  astonishment  of  her  husband, 
now  installed  herself  in  one  of  the  most  luxurious 
hotels  in  London,  and  suddenly  announced  her 
intention  of  passing  the  remainder  of  the  season 
there. 

"But  you  hate  London,"  said  Mr.  Ralt,  as 
though  afraid  she  must  be  mistaking  her  own 
wishes. 

"So  I  do." 

"You  said  you  would  never  come  up  for  the 
season  again." 

"So  I  did." 

"And  yet  you  have  come." 

"So  I  have,"  said  Mrs.  Ralt,  and  her  small 
eyes  twinkled  merrily.  "My  dear  old  man,  we 
must  sometimes  put  ourselves  about  for  other 
people.  When  I've  taken  a  thing  in  hand  I  like 
to  see  it  through,  and  in  this  case  seeing  it  through 
means  a  short  stay  in  the  metropolis." 

"I  suppose  you  want  to  do  a  lot  of  shopping?" 

"Not  I,"  said  Mrs.  Ralt,  "unless  you  want 
to  see  me  a  bit  smarter,  old  man.  I  suppose  I 
am  a  trifle  dowdy.     However,  neither  you  nor 

187 


188  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

I  ever  set  up  for  being  beauties,"  she  added, 
dispassionately. 

But  Mr.  Rait  was  apparently  quite  contented 
with  his  wife's  appearance,  for  he  protested  fondly; 
though  at  the  moment  she  was  far  from  looking 
her  best,  being  clad  in  a  gentlemanly  striped  dress- 
ing-gown, with  a  small  pigtail  of  iron-grey  hair 
hanging  down  her  shoulders,  and  a  much  larger 
one  laid  openly  upon  the  dressing-table. 

"I'm  sure  you  always  look  very  nice,  Blanche. 
I  don't  know  anybody  who  gets  herself  up  in  a 
more  thoroughly  sensible  manner.  And  as  for 
me,  I  ain't  handsome  and  don't  want  to  be;  but 
I've  got  a  good  old-fashioned  sporting  kind  of 
face,"  said  Mr.  Rait,  very  simply.  "What  more 
can  a  man  want?  And  I  suppose  you  saw  some- 
thing in  it,  or  you  wouldn't  have  had  me." 

"To  be  sure  I  shouldn't,"  said  Blanche. 

Mr.  Rait  waited  for  a  moment  in  case  his  wife 
showed  any  inclination  to  explain  herself  further 
concerning  her  sudden  determination  to  stay  in 
London;  but,  as  she  did  not,  he  shook  his  head 
with  a  puzzled  expression  and  remarked, 

"Well,  I  know  you're  always  doing  kindnesses 
to  some  one,  Blanche." 

"H'm,  this  may  prove  a  very  doubtful  kind- 
ness," said  Mrs  Rait  grimly.  "But  meantime, 
Bob,  as  we  are  here,  and  as  we  mean  to  stop  here, 
we  may  as  well  enjoy  ourselves." 

"By  all  means.     I'll  make  out  a  regular  pro- 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  189 

gramme  at  once,"  said  Mr.  Rait,  with  brightening 
eyes.  "You  know,  Blanche,  /  like  London  well 
enough.     It's  you  who  don't  like  it." 

"I  hate  smart  clothes  and  I  don't  care  much 
for  smart  people,"  said  Mrs.  Rait,  candidly. 
"Not  that  I've  had  much  to  do  with  either  for 
the  last  twenty  years.  Papa  was  a  great  one 
for  society  and  so  on,  but  I  leave  all  that  to 
Augusta;  it  is  more  in  her  line  than  mine,  though 
I  have  no  doubt  she  makes  a  fine  fool  of  her- 
self. Her  head  is  not  one  to  stand  being  made  a 
fuss  of." 

"I  don't  see  why  people  should  make  less  fuss  of 
you  than  of  Augusta,"  said  Mr.  Rait,  in  offended 
accents.  "You  must  not  forget  that  if  you  have 
married  a  poor  fellow  who  doesn't  set  up  to 
be  a  swell,  you  are  quite  as  well  bom  as  your 
sister." 

"I  am  not  likely  to  forget  that,"  said  Blanche, 
laughing  heartily.  "Something  very  odd  indeed 
would  have  to  happen  before  one  twin  sister 
could  be  less  well  bom  than  the  other!  And  as 
for  my  father,  every  one  knows  old  Sam  Mocha 
was  a  self-made  man,  who  owed  both  his  money 
and  his  peerage  to  his  own  exertions,  and  the 
more  credit  too.  All  nonsense  about  birth,  dear 
old  man.  If  the  Bible's  true  we  all  came  from 
Adam  and  Eve;  and  if  it  isn't,  we  all  came  from 
protoplasms";  in  this  airy  manner  did  Mrs.  Rait 
sum  up  the  history  of  human  origin.     "Which- 


190  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

ever  it  is  I  cannot  see  that  it  gives  us  much 
occasion  to  boast.  Now  look  here:  I've  got 
a  nice  little  luncheon  party  for  Sunday.  George 
Chilcott  and  David  Moore,  and  George's  boy 
Hector,  who's  got  an  exeat  or  something.  Any- 
way he's  come  up  to  see  his  father  and  imcle.  And 
Augusta  is  going  to  bring  Grace  Trumoin  and 
Philippa,  and  an  odious  Frenchwoman  whom 
she's  taken  a  violent  fancy  to;  so  we  shall  be 
quite  a  pleasant  party.  And  as  soon  as  you're 
dressed  I  want  you  to  toddle  round  and  secure 
a  table  at  the  Navarre." 

"But  why  not  ask  them  to  dine?" 

"You  don't  suppose  I  could  get  Augusta  to 
dine  under  three  weeks'  notice!  But  I've  booked 
some  of  the  others  for  dinners  and  theatres,"  said 
Mrs.  Rait  cheerfully.  "Augusta  rather  likes 
lunching  at  restaurants,  and  she  told  me  the 
Navarre  had  a  new  chef,  which  was  a  pretty  broad 
hint.  Meanwhile  I'll  leave  you  to  take  places 
somewhere  for  to-night  and  to-morrow  for  our 
two  selves.  Something  light  and  bright  in  the 
musical  comedy  line,  eh?'* 

' '  It's  the  only  kind  of  show  /  have  any  use  for," 
said  Mr.  Rait,  with  much  relief.  "A  man  doesn't 
want  to  have  to  think,  you  know,  after  he's 
eaten  a  good  dinner." 

"No,  no,  nor  a  woman  either,"  said  Mrs.  Rait, 
"and  we  needn't  be  in  town  at  all  in  the  daytime — 
to  speak  of,"  she  added,  soothingly,  "with  the 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  191 

little  car  always  ready  to  nip  off  anywhere  at  a 
moment's  notice." 

"No  more  we  need,"  said  Mr.  Rait,  and  his 
rubicimd  face  shone  with  satisfaction  at  the 
reminder. 

At  sixteen  even  despair  is  transitory,  and  three 
days  after  her  melancholy  disillusionment  con- 
cerning Augusta's  perfection,  Philippa  wrote  to 
her  mother  as  follows: 

"My  darling  Mum, — ^The  reason  I  have  not 
written  for  so  long  is  that  I  waited  to  be  able  to 
tell  you  about  Mme.  Minart,  the  companion 
whom  Cousin  Augusta  has  engaged  to  write  her 
letters  and  do  lots  of  other  things;  but  while  I 
am  here  she  takes  me  for  walks  and  has  meals 
with  me  when  Cousin  Augusta  is  out. 

"I  would  not  write  at  once,  as  I  know  you  think 
my  judgments  are  apt  to  be  hasty,  but  I  can 
now  tell  you  that  Mme.  Minart  is  by  far  the 
nicest  person  I  have  ever  met.  Of  course  it  helps 
my  French  very  much  to  be  talking  to  her  all  day. 
Cousin  Augusta  likes  her  as  much  as  I  do,  which 
is  a  great  comfort.  I  know  now  what  you  mean 
by  being  tactful  when  I  see  Mme.  Minart  with 
Cousin  Augusta.  I  assure  you  in  three  days  I 
have  learnt  more  tact  from  Mme.  Minart  than  in 
all  the  rest  of  my  life  without  her.  Now,  mamma, 
you  used  to  say  I  ought  to  have  a  j&nishing  gover- 


192  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

ness,  and  of  course  I  hated  the  idea;  but  if  you 
could  only  persuade  Cousin  Augusta  to  let  you 
have  Mme.  Minart  for  me,  I  should  be  simply 
delighted.  She  is  thoroughly  able  to  finish  girls, 
for  she  lived  with  a  Grand  Duchess  in  Russia 
and  finished  all  her  girls;  she  told  me  so  herself. 
This  is  quite  my  own  idea  about  her  coming  to 
me,  and  to  show  you  how  discreet  I  am,  I  have  not 
told  her  I  am  writing  to  ask  you  about  this.  She  is 
very  good-looking;  I  don't  know  if  you  would 
call  her  handsome.  /  do,  but  it  is  a  face  which 
grows  upon  one.  At  first  sight  I  thought  her 
almost  plain.  She  is  very  dark,  inclined  to  be 
yellow,  and  has  a  slight  moustache ;  but  even  this 
is  fascinating  when  you  know  her  well.  Cousin 
Augusta  says  she  is  sure  she  has  Spanish  blood. 
Her  eyes  are  simply  enormous,  such  a  dark 
brown  you  can  hardly  tell  the  pupil  from  the  iris, 
and  her  black  hair  comes  down  nearly  to  her 
knees,  you  never  saw  anything  like  it.  Of  course 
Cousin  Augusta's  maid  is  jealous  of  her,  and 
poor  Roper  can't  bear  her,  but  you  know  how 
prejudiced  servants  are  against  foreigners.  She 
is  not  young,  she  must  be  at  least  thirty,  but  quite 
well  preserved  and  active,  and  it  is  a  comfort 
to  walk  with  some  one  who  can  walk  as  fast  as  I 
do.  Holland  has  an  absurd  train  and  high  heels 
which  trip  her  up,  and  Roper  gets  so  breathless 
that  she  bursts  her  dress,  and  even  her  boots, 
whereas  Mme.  Minart  wears  such  neat  shoes  and 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  193 

short,  very  smart  skirts,  and  is  so  interested  in 
everything  one  tells  her  that  she  is  a  delightful 
companion.  To  please  you,  mother  darling, 
I  am  going  to  take  more  interest  in  my  clothes, 
especially  as  I  now  have  much  prettier  ones. 
To  show  you  how  delightful  Mme.  Minart  must  be, 
though  I  had  been  looking  forward  so  to  luncheon 
with  Lady  Kentisbury,  I  was  actually  quite 
sorry  to  leave  her  when  the  time  came  yesterday 
for  me  to  go.  Lady  K.  was  very  kind  to  me, 
and  said  I  must  call  her  Cousin  Jane;  and  the 
others  called  me  by  my  Christian  name  as  we  are 
cousins.  Charlie  is  very  fair  and  rather  pretty, 
which  must  feel  wretched  for  a  boy.  He  looks 
no  older  than  Hector,  and  is  not  half  so  broad 
though  he  is  twenty-one,  but  he  has  very  nice 
manners,  almost  like  Cousin  Cecil,  and  does  not 
give  himself  airs  because  he  happens  to  be  a  year 
or  two  older  than  oneself;  so  we  got  on  very  weU, 
especially  when  Cousin  Jane  left  us  alone.  I  like 
him  much  better  than  Joanna,  who  is  an  affected 
pig;  she  is  eighteen,  and  not  so  pretty  as  Charlie. 
To-morrow  Charlie  is  going  to  take  us  all  down 
to  Ranelagh  in  his  new  motor.  He  is  going  to 
teach  me  to  drive  it,  but  don't  be  nervous,  as 
Lady  Kentisbury  will  be  with  us,  and  she  is  far 
more  frightened  about  him  than  even  you  are 
about  me.  I  am  now  enjoying  myself  very  much, 
but  I  wish  you  would  let  me  go  to  the  Lundys' 
dance.     Granny  said   I  was  to  ask  you  again. 

X3 


194  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

Their  daughter  is  only  seventeen,  and  it  is  only 
for  boys  and  girls.  Charlie  and  Joanna  are  going, 
and  Joanna  said  with  a  horrid  smile,  'Of  course 
you  can't  go,  as  you're  not  out.'  I  am  a  head 
taller  than  she  is  and  look  years  older.  There 
is  a  horrid  old  Major  Cymbert  always  coming 
here  who  once  wanted  to  marry  Cousin  Augusta. 
He  talks  to  me  exactly  as  though  I  were  a  child. 
I  must  say  it  is  very  annoying.  Mme.  Minart 
has  shown  Roper  a  lovely  way  to  do  my  hair; 
neither  up  nor  down,  but  just  right  for  a  jeune  fille. 
Please,  please  say  yes  about  the  dance.  I'm 
afraid  I  wrote  rather  horridly  about  it  the  other 
day,  but  if  you  only  could  tinderstand  how  hate- 
ful it  is  to  be  treated  like  a  little  girl  when  you're 
so  nearly  grown  up  you  would  let  me  go.  Please 
write  at  once  to  say  you  will,  dear  mummie. 
"Your  affectionate  daughter, 

"Philippa  Adelstane." 

This  letter  brought  no  particular  consolation 
to  Catherine,  who  lay  awake  at  night,  wondering 
what  kind  of  woman  this  could  be  who  in  three 
days  had  obtained  so  much  influence  over  her 
daughter.  She  penned  a  long,  apologetic,  anxious 
letter  to  Augusta  on  the  subject,  and  the  reply 
brought  only  partial  satisfaction.  Augusta  wrote 
of  course  in  a  violent  hurry.  The  words  In 
Haste,  might  have  been  inscribed  on  her  note- 
paper  with  her  address,  so  invariably  did  they 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  195 

recur  in  her  communications  to  her  relatives  and 
friends.  Like  most  persons  who  have  nothing 
to  do  from  morning  till  night,  she  never  had  a 
moment  to  spare.  She  assured  Catherine  of 
Mme.  Minart's  excellent  qualities  as  an  instruc- 
tress and  guardian  of  youth;  and  almost  in  one 
sentence  added  that  she  was  a  most  trustwor- 
thy and  devoted  companion  for  PhiHppa,  and  that 
Philippa  was  scarcely  ever  with  her,  as  nothing 
would  induce  Augusta  to  allow  the  girl  out  of  her 
sight  for  a  moment.  Catherine  was  obliged  to 
gather  what  comfort  she  might  from  these  con- 
tradictory assurances. 

Meanwhile  the  blank  of  Philippa's  absence  was 
perceptibly  lessened  by  the  companionship  of 
little  Lily.  Catherine  experienced  occasionally 
a  bewildered  feeling  that  the  child  of  her  dreams 
had  come  to  life,  and  felt  almost  jealous  for 
Philippa's  sake;  almost  resentful  that  the  little 
arms  which  clung  to  her  so  faithfully  were  not 
Philippa's  arms;  yet  realising  that  such  demon- 
strative love  was  not  in  Philippa's  nature. 

Lily  showed  no  preference  for  Miss  Dulcinea, 
but  followed  her  godmother  about  like  a  shadow. 

In  the  morning,  poor  Catherine  daily  spent 
an  anxious  hour  over  her  letter  to  Philippa; 
writing  and  rewriting;  wording  her  news  as 
carefully  as  though  she  were  framing  a  diplo- 
matic despatch,  fearful  of  offending  her  child's 
susceptibilities  by  giving  too  much  good  advice, 


196  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

and  of  neglecting  her  duty  by  withholding  it 
altogether.  During  this  long  hour  Lily  sat  like 
a  mouse  in  a  comer;  poring  over  her  lesson,  and 
ready  to  repeat  it  perfectly  the  moment  Cousin 
Catherine  closed  her  envelope.  Lily  learnt  to 
listen  for  the  little  sigh  which  heralded  this 
moment,  and  it  never  failed  to  come. 

In  her  heart  she  felt  she  knew  why  Catherine 
sighed,  though  she  could  not,  perhaps,  have  put 
the  feeling  into  words;  but  Catherine  never 
guessed  how  intently  the  black  eyes  watched  her 
as  she  bent  over  her  little  writing-table  in  the 
green-shaded  parlour.  When  she  rose,  and  went 
out  into  the  kitchen  garden,  the  little  figure  in  a 
pink  sunbonnet  followed  her  there.  Catherine  cut 
lettuces  and  pulled  spring  onions,  and  gathered 
young  spinach  with  her  own  hands;  and  Lily 
carried  the  basket,  and  helped  to  pick  the  green 
gooseberries  and  ripe  strawberries,  making  grave 
comments  which  often  obliged  Catherine  to  laugh. 

In  the  afternoon  the  child  played  mysterious 
games  with  fir-cones,  under  shrubbery  bushes, 
talking  to  herself  all  the  while;  or  if  she  were 
permitted  buried  herself  in  a  story-book,  and 
remained  lost  to  earth  until  she  was  called  to  tea. 
In  the  evening  she  took  the  smallest  watering-pot, 
and  watered  the  geraniums  and  the  ferns  and  the 
young  lettuce  as  carefully  as  could  be  wished- 
and  Catherine  smiled  to  recall  Philippa's  early 
efforts  in  this  direction :  the  trampled  flower-beds. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  197 

the  soakeci  shoes,  and  the  dripping  skirts  which 
inevitably  resulted. 

Children  have  often  far  more  delicacy  of  feeling 
than  their  elders  give  them  credit  for,  and  Lily 
preserved  a  large  share  of  that  natural  reserve 
which  is  common  in  httle  maidens  towards  their 
elders;  Catherine  respected  it,  and  never  at- 
tempted to  hft  the  veil  of  the  child's  silence  con- 
cerning her  home  life.  But  she  watched  the 
httle  face  grow  daily  brighter,  the  frightened 
tvrinkle  develop  into  a  frank  smile,  unafraid  and 
unconcealed,  and  she  perceived  that  this  elfin  fur- 
tive creature  was  in  reality  possessed  of  a  merry 
soul,  while  the  coaxing  ways,  which  the  Chilcotts 
called  artful,  only  recalled  to  Catherine  the  affec- 
tionate warmth  of  heart  and  manner  which  had 
characterised  Lily's  mother.  Though  the  child's 
caresses  might  sadden,  yet  in  a  manner  they 
consoled  Catherine  for  much  that  she  had 
lost. 

The  love  of  Delia's  child  was  precious  to  her, 
and  she  grew  daily  more  interested  in  the  train- 
ing of  a  mind  precociously  intelligent ;  though  its 
native  sinceritv  had  been,  alas!  warped  by  fear. 

"Lily,  things  that  aren't  true  have  no  real 
meaning.  The  world  is  full  of  tangles,  and  every 
time  you  tell  a  fib  you  add  another  Httle  tangle, 
instead  of  helping  the  brave  men  and  true  who 
are  striving  all  over  the  world  to  set  things 
straight." 


198  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

**Like  sowing  more  little  weeds  in  a  garden," 
said  Lily,  sympathetically. 

Catherine  felt  the  surprised  sense  of  being 
understood  that  often  assailed  her  when  she 
talked  fancifully  to  Lily. 

"I  will  help  you  pull  up  the  little  weeds,  and 
you  must  start  fresh  and  only  let  flowers  grow 
in  your  little  garden.  When  you  have  said  some- 
thing that  is  not  quite  true,  stop  and  correct 
yourself,"  said  Catherine  encouragingly;  "that 
win  be  pulling  up  the  weed." 

"Won't  you  be  angry  with  me?" 

"No,  I  shall  know  it  is  only  a  bad  habit,  and 
that  you  are  trying  hard  to  cure  yourself." 

Into  this  scheme  for  her  own  improvement 
Lily  entered  with  much  zest,  and  found  it  as 
good  a  game  as  any  she  had  ever  invented  for 
herself. 

Down  the  path  of  Fate  now  came  stepping 
daintily,  to  meet  George  Chilcott,  the  languid, 
slender  form  of  Lady  Grace  Trumoin. 

David  Moore  was  by  no  means  sure  that  he 
approved  of  this  result  of  his  earnest  counsel  to 
his  brother-in-law,  or  whether  the  calm  and 
experienced  woman  of  the  world  were  altogether 
suited  to  be  the  successor  of  Delia.  He  had 
imagined  a  fresh  young  bride,  who  would  brighten 
the  dull  existence  of  George,  pet  little  Lily,  and 
disperse  the  gloom  which  hung  over  Bridescombe. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  199 

Lady  Grace  was  an  unknown  quantity.  Nobody 
could  foresee  what  she  would  choose  to  do,  but  it 
was  very  evident  that  she  would  do  what  she 
chose;  and  that  George  was  attracted  by  the 
very  elements  of  strength  and  reserve  in  her 
character  which  most  repelled  David.  This 
David  perceived  a  very  few  days  after  their 
arrival  in  town;  but,  however  amenable  George 
might  be  to  his  influence,  there  were  limits  to 
the  advice  which  could  be  offered  him;  and  his 
brother-in-law  could  only  rejoice  to  perceive 
that  Lily's  father  had  shaken  off  his  depression 
almost  inmiediately  after  depositing  his  child 
in  Catherine's  care,  and  that  every  day  spent 
in  their  bachelor  rooms  appeared  to  restore  to 
him  something  of  the  careless  jollity  and  placid 
good  nature  which  had  characterised  his  boyhood. 

"It  was  time  I  had  a  change,  David,"  he 
repeated  more  than  once.  "One  begins  to  take 
a  jaundiced  view  you  know.  Yes,  that's  it — a 
jaimdiced  view  of  one's  surroundings,  if  one 
looks  at  them  too  closely  for  too  long  at  a  time." 

Being  of  an  optimistic  and  modest  disposition, 
he  even  grew  inclined  to  blame  himself  for  the 
state  of  things  which  had  arisen  at  Bridescombe, 
and  which,  as  he  frankly  owned  to  David,  made 
his  life  at  times  almost  unbearable. 

"I've  no  great  gift  for  organisation,  David, 
and  I  sometimes  don't  feel  sure  that  going  into 
the  army  is  the  best  preparation  for  settling 


200  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

down  on  one's  own  place,  after  all;  and  yet  I 
can't  help  being  glad  Hector's  set  his  heart  on 
soldiering.  Hope  he'll  pull  off  his  exams,  all 
right,  but  he  ain't  remarkable  for  brains,  I'm 
afraid.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  hold  forth  to  him 
about  working  and  so  forth,  poor  fellar,  more 
than  I  do.    But  I  ain't  much  of  a  disciplinarian." 

"I  don't  believe  jawing  a  boy  does  a  bit  of 
good,"  said  David.  "Let's  have  him  here,  give 
him  the  time  of  his  life,  and  have  one  or  two  of 
the  best  to  dine  and  do  a  play  with  us.  In- 
spire him  more  than  any  preaching  of  yours  or 
mine." 

This  form  of  discipline  so  recommended  itself 
to  young  Hector,  that  he  confided  to  Philippa  at 
the  Raits'  luncheon  party  that  he  wished  his 
father  would  take  up  his  abode  permanently 
with  Colonel  Moore. 

"He  would  be  neglecting  his  duties  at  home," 
said  Philippa,  severely.  "Oh,  Hector,  mamma 
has  telegraphed  that  I  may  go  to  the  Limdys' 
dance  after  all.  Won't  it  be  lovely?  How  I  wish 
you  were  coming!" 

"I'm  jolly  glad  I'm  not.  I  should  hate  it  like 
anything,"  said  the  civil  Hector.  "Besides  it's 
only  for  half-baked  kids,  not  a  real  dance.  I 
say,  Phil,  d'you  think  you'll  be  here  for  the  Eton 
and  Harrow?" 

'  *  I  think  so.    I  was  to  stay  six  weeks." 

"That's  all  right.     I  shall  see  you  there.    Be 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  201 

sure  youVe  properly  got  up.  You  might  wear 
the  rig-out  you've  got  on  now.  That  hat  is 
really  frightfully  decent.  Very  unlike  the  things 
you  wear  at  Welwysbere.  I  suppose  Lady  Adel- 
stane  chose  it." 

"As  if  a  boy  of  your  age  knew  anything  about 
hats.  I  chose  it  myself  as  it  happens,"  said 
Philippa,  disdainfully,  and  she  turned  her  shoul- 
der upon  the  youth. 

"Don't  get  stuffy,"  he  advised.  "I  shall  be 
gone  to-morrow,  and  then  you'll  be  sorry.  Who 
is  the  foreign  lady?  It  makes  everything  stiff 
when  people  are  obliged  to  jabber  French." 

"It  is  Mme.  Minart,  Cousin  Augusta's  com- 
panion," said  Philippa  eagerly. 

"What  does  she  want  a  companion  for  now 
she's  got  you?" 

"Oh,  Hector,  she's  such  an  angel!" 

"Do  you  mean  she's  your  latest  craze?"  said 
Hector,  unimpressed. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  my  latest 
craze.  She's  my  great  friend.  I  only  wish  you 
had  a  tenth  part  of  her  tact,"  said  Philippa  with 
dignity. 

"I  only  wish  I  had,"  said  Hector,  derisively. 
"If  I  could  butter  up  old  Slocum  as  she's  butter- 
ing up  Uncle  David,  it  would  be  very  greatly  to 
my  advantage." 

"So  Cinderella  is  to  be  allowed  to  go  to  the 
ball  after  all,  eh,  Phihppa?"  cried  Mrs.  Rait. 


202  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"I  wish  you  joy  of  your  first  dance,  my  dear. 
I  wish  you  better  luck  than  I  had  at  mine,  for  I 
only  got  one  partner;  and  I  tripped  him  up,  so 
down  I  came,  and  sprained  my  ankle  and  had  to 
be  carried  home." 

The  noise  of  the  band,  the  clatter  of  the  service, 
and  the  chatter  of  the  crowd  in  the  restaurant 
rendered  a  tHe-h-Ute  not  only  safe,  but  preferable 
to  those  who  did  not  care  to  scream  so  loudly 
as  Mrs.  Rait. 

"I  have  really  fotind  a  treasure,"  said  Augusta 
to  Lady  Grace,  next  whom  she  had  insisted 
upon  seating  herself.  "Mme.  Minart  has  been 
going  through  the  accounts  for  me,  and  finds  the 
household  extravagance  appalling.  I  have  a 
very  great  mind  to  let  her  be  housekeeper  and 
get  rid  of  Mrs.  Joliffe.  She  was  once  housekeeper 
to  a  German  baron  and  his  wife,  and  is  always 
pressing  me  to  write  to  them  about  her." 

"How  delightful!"  said  Lady  Grace,  vaguely. 

"She  has  taken  Philippa  completely  ofiE  my 
hands.  This  afternoon,  for  instance,  they  are 
off  to  the  Zoo  together.  Imagine  my  relief.  My 
last  Sunday  afternoon  was  a  perfect  frost.  Men 
can't  and  won't  talk  before  a  girl  of  that  age. 
Nobody  in  fact  can  open  their  mouths.  She  feels 
it  herself,  poor  darling,  and  it  makes  her  more 
farouche  than  ever.  You  will  say  I  ought  to  cure 
her,  but  really  it's  easier  said  than  done." 

"She  looks  happy  enough  now." 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  203 

**I  can't  think  why  Blanche  asked  that  boy,'* 
said  Augusta,  lowering  her  voice  prudently,  for 
George  was  seated  next  her  on  her  other  side. 
"Nor  his  father  either.  The  very  people  whom 
Philippa  meets  every  day  at  home." 

Lady  Grace  knew  very  well  why  Mrs.  Rait 
had  asked  George  Chilcott  and  his  son,  but  she 
made  no  response  to  Augusta. 

"Going  to  the  Zoo!"  cried  Mr.  Rait.  "What 
an  excellent  idea!  Blanche,  do  you  hear?  Philippa 
and  Mme.  Minart  are  going  to  the  Zoo.  Let  us 
make  up  a  party  and  go  all  together." 

"I  can  give  you  as  many  orders  as  you  choose," 
said  Augusta,  making  it  clear  that  she  had  no 
intention  of  joining  Mr.  Ralt's  party. 

"To  the  Zoo!  One  would  think  we  were  a  lot 
of  kids!"  said  Hector,  in  an  indignant  aside  to 
Philippa.  But  since  his  father  and  uncle  did  not 
share  his  prejudices  against  this  childish  form  of 
amusement  he  was  obliged  to  conceal  his  feelings, 
and  consoled  himself  by  the  reflection  that  perhaps 
old  Rait  would  let  him  try  his  hand  at  driving 
the  car. 

"I  tell  you  what,  Augusta,  when  we  call  at 
your  house  for  the  tickets,  you  can  let  us  have 
all  the  fruit  you  can  spare  for  the  animals,"  said 
Mrs.  Rait,  cheerfully.  "They  will  appreciate 
a  change  from  nuts  and  buns." 

"I  never  heard  of  anything  so  extravagant!" 
said  Augusta,  sincerely  shocked. 


204  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"How  wonderfully  you  speak  English,  ma- 
dame,"  said  Colonel  Moore  to  his  neighbour. 

"I  have  lived  many  years  in  this  country," 
said  Mme.  Minart's  mellow  contralto  tones, 
modestly.  "Not  always  in  the  same  family — 
one  does  not  improve  so.  One  learns  nothing. 
And  besides,  people  grow  tired  of  always  the 
same  governess — the  same  companion.  I  do 
not  blame  them.  I  feel  the  same.  There  are 
many,"  said  Mme.  Minart,  with  a  twinkle  in  her 
dark  eyes,  "who  would  be  glad  to  change  their 
family — ^their  relatives — from  time  to  time — if 
they  could." 

"There  certainly  are.  You  are  a  student 
of  human  nattire,  I  perceive,"  said  David 
politely. 

"It  is  necessary  to  study  in  order  to  please," 
she  said,  with  a  smile  more  melancholy  than 
cheerful,  and  David's  susceptible  heart  was 
instantly  touched  to  compassion.  "I  have  had  to 
please  people  so  different — of  so  many  classes, 
even.  I  know  your  family  of  the  suburb  very 
well;  of  your  country  gentleman — that  is  again 
different;  of  the  Anglo-Indian — altogether  an- 
other; of  the  parsonage — the  professional — the 
Londoner — of  the  great  families  who  have  many 
houses.  The  worldly,  the  pious,  the  vulgar,  the 
simple,  are  to  be  found  in  each  class.  But  always 
the  higher  you  go,  the  more  simple — the 
more    courteous.     Before    you    can    be     quite 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  205 

simple — ^you  must  be   very   great — is   it   not   so, 


monsieur 


"It  may  very  well  be  so,"  said  David,  laughing. 
"You  have  had  more  opportunities  than  I  of 
knowing,  I  expect." 

"Ah,  that  to  me  reveals  you,"  she  said  archly. 
"The  gentleman  who  makes  no  pretence." 
David's  expressive  face  betrayed  uneasiness, 
almost  alarm,  at  this  compliment ;  and  she  hast-  - 
ened  to  smooth  it  away.  An  inflection  of  plead- 
ing, of  humility,  crept  into  her  voice.  "I  speak 
perhaps  too  plainly,  but  you  will  pardon  me. 
For  you  seemed  to  me  perhaps — ^not  so  English 
as " 

"I  am  half  an  Irishman,"  said  David. 

"I  knew  it,"  said  Mme.  Minart,  and  again 
her  accent  betrayed  that  subtle  hint  of  flatte.ry. 
But  a  moment  later  she  was  all  attention  to 
Augusta,  who  was  begging  Colonel  Moore 
to  escort  her  and  Philippa  to  the.  Lundys' 
dance. 

"But  I  don't  know  the  Lund^jS." 

"I  assure  you  they  are  -dying  to  know  you. 
And  they  are  going  to  send  you  a  card  to-morrow," 
said  Augusta,  determining  to  despatch  a  note  to 
Lady  Lundy  and  a'ak  for  this  favour  directly 
she  returned  home..  "I  am  afraid  Cecil  won't 
be  back.  It  is  too  provoking  of  him,  for  I  wanted 
him  to  see  Philippa  at  her  first  dance;  but  so  it 
is.     And  I  have   only  boys  and  girls  coming  to 


206  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

dinner,  and  shall  be  quite  too  wretched  without 
another  old  person  to  keep  me  in  countenance," 
said  Augusta,  comfortably. 

"I  shall  be  delighted,"  said  David. 
Mme.  Minart  observed  the  frank  flush  of  pleas- 
ure in  Philippa's  face,  and  the  sparkle  in  her 
blue  eye. 

"She  has  everything  in  the  world  before  her," 
thought  the  Frenchwoman.  "Love,  money,  posi- 
tion all  to  come,  and  she  has  youth  and  beauty 
and  a  health  that  is  perfect.  She  takes  all  good 
things  as  her  due.  What  could  I  not  have  done, 
what  could  I  not  have  been,  with  but  half  the 
chances  of  this  child?" 

Philippa's  good  spirits  were  now  entirely  re- 
stored. Though  her  cousin  Augusta's  friendship 
had  failed  her,  yet  that  vacant  place  had  been, 
as  it  seemed  to  her,  miraculously  filled  up  by 
this  delightful  Mme  Minart,  who  was,  after  all, 
a  far  clererer  and  more  agreeable  companion 
than  Augustu  could  ever  be.  The  flattery  of 
the  Frenchwoman  had  in  fact  sunk  deeply  into 
Philippa's  soul,  and  soothed  her  wounded  self- 
esteem  completely. 

She  looked  forward  to  h-^r  first  dance  without 
any  regrets  save  one — thai  Mme  Minart  could 
not  be  present  to  behold  he,'  bliss.  There  was 
no  doubt  in  Philippa's  innocent  mind  but  that 
such  an  occupation  would  affod  her  new  friend 
the  most  exquisite  pleasure.     She  was  at  this 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  207 

period  of  her  existence  well  aware  that  middle- 
aged  persons  find  all  their  happiness  in  looking 
on  at  the  happiness  of  the  young,  and  are  not  so 
unreasonable  as  to  expect  enjoyment  on  their 
own  accoimt. 


CHAPTER  XII 

Towards  the  end  of  June,  Cecil  Adelstane  rode 
up  to  Shepherd's  Rest  one  evening;  and  meeting 
Johnny,  the  groom,  in  the  lane,  handed  his  horse 
over  to  be  led  to  the  stables,  while  he  walked 
into  the  garden,  where  he  found  Catherine,  as 
usual. 

Her  book  had  fallen  into  her  lap,  and  she  was 
enjoying  the  cool  air  after  a  very  hot  day. 

Her  dreaming  gaze  followed  the  flight  of  the 
swifts ,  and  house-martins  wheeling  and  darting 
in  the  blue  of  space,  in  search  of  their  invisible 
prey.  All  round  the  bench  whereon  she  sat 
the  campanulas,  rose  and  purple  and  white, 
swung  noiseless  bells.  Behind  her  the  pointed 
spires  of  the  fir-trees,  and  the  rounded  flowering 
masses  of  a  great  Spanish  chestnut,  were  outlined 
against  a  clear  sunset  sky,  and  from  the  orchard, 
where  the  cows  were  being  milked,  came  the 
soimd  of  Lily's  voice,  gaily  chattering.  It  struck 
Catherine  that  Cecil  came  up  the  garden  path 
with  a  heavier  air  and  step  than  usual. 

"I  have  come  to  bid  you  good-bye,  for  my 
business  is  finished,  and  I  am  returning  to  town 

ao8 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  209 

to-morrow,"  he  said,  after  his  usual  civil  greeting 
and  inquiries  for  her  news  of  Philippa. 

"It  is  the  night  of  her  dance,"  Catherine  said, 
rather  wistfully;  but  his  absent  expression  made 
her  abandon  the  subject.  "I  am  afraid  you  have 
had  a  very  dull  time  down  here  alone,"  she  said. 

"I  have  been  too  much  occupied  to  be  dull," 
said  Sir  Cecil  in  his  most  precise  tones.  He  was 
silent  for  a  moment,  and  then,  as  though  suddenly 
conscious  of  her  sympathetic  feeling,  was  moved 
to  make  one  of  his  rare  confidences.  "The  fact 
is,  Catherine,  I  have  been  very  much  worried 
and  troubled  of  late." 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  it.  I  have  fancied  you 
were  not  looking  well." 

"All  my  Hfe,"  said  Sir  Cecil  gravely,  "I  have 
been  constitutionally  unable  to  stand  worry. 
It  affects  my  sleep.  I  fear  for  my  health.  I  do 
indeed."  He  turned  his  deep  blue  eyes,  that 
were  the  exact  counterpart  of  Philippa's,  upon 
Catherine,  with  an  expression  so  woeful  that 
she  had  some  ado  not  to  smile  at  his  alarm  for 
himself. 

"You  must  not  let  yourself  worry." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"I  am  not  inclined,  I  can  assure  you,  to  seek 
causes  for  anxiety.  It  has  often  been  a  matter 
of  self-reproach  with  me  that  I  have  perhaps 
taken  matters  too  easily;  that  I  have  been  too — 
too — "     He  searched  anxiously  for  words  that 

>4 


210  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

should  convey  his  meaning  without  at  the  same 
time  implying  any  possible  reproach  to  another; 
and  Catherine,  who  understood  perfectly  his 
loyalty  to  Augusta,  felt  tenderly  towards  him, 
and  regretted  her  suppressed  smile. 

"I  have  been  too  much  given  to  ignoring 
what  I  have  not  altogether  felt  able  to  approve." 

"I  do  not  think  you  need  reproach  yourself," 
said  Catherine,  gently. 

"Do  you  not,  indeed?"  he  said  earnestly.  "I 
am  very  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,  Catherine, 
very  glad."  He  paused,  and  added  emphatically, 
"I  know  no  one  whose  opinion  on  such  a  matter 
I  should  value  more  than  your  own." 

Catherine  flushed  with  surprise  and  pleasure, 
for  Cecil  was  not  given  to  expressions  of  praise. 

"To  cut  a  long  story  short,"  he  said,  under  the 
impression  that  he  had  been  exceedingly  loqua- 
cious, "I  feel  impelled  to  tell  you,  in  the  very 
strictest  confidence,  that  I  have  discovered  that  my 
trusted  agent  here,  Mr.  Crewe,  has  been  systemati- 
cally defrauding  me  for  a  great  number  of  years. 
Could  you  have  conceived  it  possible?" 

Catherine  expressed  her  sympathy  and  indig- 
nation very  warmly,  but  she  found  it  difficult 
to  appear  surprised.  Country  neighbours  are  in 
the  way  of  hearing  a  good  many  criticisms  of 
absentee  landlords,  and  the  character  of  Mr. 
Crewe  had  not  stood  high  in  local  estimation. 

Fortimately    Cecil    was    too    much    occupied 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  211 

with  his  troubles  to  perceive  her  embarrassment. 

"I  have  been  obliged  to  send  for  my  solicitor, 
Mr.  Ash.  He  is  a  very  clear-headed  young  man 
indeed.  I  thought  it  a  great  misfortune  that 
his  father,  who  had  all  our  affairs  at  his  fingers' 
ends,  should  be  dead ;  but  I  am  not  sure  whether 
old  Ash  had  such  energy  as  this  young  man  has 
shown."  He  sighed  wearily.  "I  blame  myself, 
Catherine.  I  have  been  away  too  much,  and  too 
much  taken  up  with — ^with  gaiety  and  frivolity." 

The  words  were  so  much  at  variance  with  his 
pretematurally  solemn  expression  and  the  serious- 
ness of  his  character,  that  again  Catherine  could 
have  smiled,  and  again  she  restrained  herself, 
noting  the  lines  that  unaccustomed  care  had  en- 
graven upon  his  handsome  brow. 

"I  am  sure,  Cecil,"  she  said,  with  an  indignant 
inflection  of  voice,  "that  whatever  you  have 
done,  or  left  undone,  has  been  from  no  lack  of 
conscientiousness.  You  have  not  been  seeking 
your  own  pleasure."  She  could  not  help  a  slight 
emphasis. 

"I  have  not  indeed,"  he  said,  almost  involun- 
tarily, and  sighed.  ' '  Do  you  remember,  Catherine, 
how  very  much  occupied  I  used  to  be  with  the 
estate  when  first  I  inherited?  When  we  lived 
here  practically  all  the  year  round?  Those  were 
happy  years.  I  wish  very  much  we  had  been 
able  to  continue  living  at  the  Abbey.  I  do  not 
think  Crewe  would  have  had  so  many  oppor- 


212  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

tunities;  but  it  is  no  use  regretting  what  can- 
not be  helped.  I  suppose  few  of  us  would  not  do 
differently  in  many  ways,  if  we  had  our  time  to 
live  over  again.  One  must  pay  the  penalty  for — 
for  the  carelessness  of  one's  youth." 

Catherine  knew  that  Cecil  Adelstane  was, 
in  fact,  paying  the  penalty  for  his  choice  of  a 
silly  and  selfish  wife,  and  for  his  weakness  in 
allowing  that  wife  to  govern  his  actions;  but 
she  knew  also  that  Augusta  possessed  a  certain 
shrewdness  in  spite  of  her  folly;  which,  com- 
bined as  it  was  with  want  of  principle  and  feel- 
ing, made  it  an  easy  matter  for  her  to  outwit 
her  husband,  who  was  quite  as  dull  as  he  was 
conscientious. 

"I  hope  the  mischief  done  by  Crewe  is  not 
irremediable,  since  you  are  able  to  go  back  to 
town,"  she  said  soothingly. 

"His  own  attitude  in  the  matter  has  been  of 
the  greatest  assistance,"  replied  Sir  Cecil.  "I 
must  tell  you,  Catherine,  that  I  owe  my  dis- 
covery of  the  whole  affair  to  George  Chilcott. 
He  gave  me  a  hint  that  he  feared  I  was  relying 
too  much  upon  Crewe's  integrity,  and  drew 
my  attention  to  the  fact  that  the  felling  of  the 
timber  last  winter  in  the  Amery  and  Woolaway 
woods  had  been  excessive.  Crewe  had  evidently 
counted  on  my  neglecting  to  visit  so  outlying  a 
portion  of  the  property.  I  discovered  that  the 
woods  had  been  practically  destroyed,  and  that  I 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  213 

was  actually  being  charged  for  the  thinning  of 
the  coppices  while  he  had  been  selling  quantities 
of  valuable  and  well-grown  larch,  and  pocketing 
the  proceeds.  One  discovery,  of  course,  led  to 
another,  but  I  will  not  trouble  you  with  the 
details.  I  have  been  grossly  deceived  and  cheated 
through  a  long  course  of  years,  and  my  own 
neglect  has  been  the  contributory  cause,  leading 
him  to  become  bolder  and  bolder  as  time  went 
on,  until  he  was  utterly  reckless,  and  believed 
he  could  do  anything  he  chose  with  impunity." 

"What  will  you  do  with  him?" 

"Why — I  fear  you  may  think  me  weak,  but, 
since  he  threw  himself  on  my  mercy,  I  have 
decided  not  to  prosecute.  It  is  not  altogether 
from  motives  of  charity,"  said  the  scrupulous 
gentleman:  "but  I  am  anxious  to  avoid  a  pub- 
licity and  scandal  that  would,  in  effect,  be  very 
mortifying.  As  regards  the  moral  aspect  of  the 
case,  those  who  have  worked  under  Crewe,  and 
who  could  not  have  been  altogether  ignorant  of 
his  untrustworthiness,  are  now  aware  that  he  has 
been  dismissed  in  disgrace,  and  I  do  not  think 
any  further  details  need  transpire,  since  he  has 
rendered  it  unnecessary  for  us  to  call  witnesses 
by  confessing  the  whole  of  his  misdeeds.  He 
has  speculated  so  wildly  with  the  money  of  which 
he  has  defrauded  me,  that  he  has  actually  profited 
nothing.  It  appears  to  me  there  is  nothing  to  be 
gained  by  punishing  him  further.    He  is  an  old 


214  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

man — ^he  will  find  no  more  employment — he  is 
ruined.  He  served  us  well  enough  in  the  past, 
when  my  poor  uncle  was  alive  to  look  after  him." 

"I  cannot  help  being  glad  he  will  not  end  his 
days  in  prison,"  said  Catherine,  apologetically. 

"He  is  more  likely  to  end  them  in  the  work- 
house," said  Cecil  gloomily.  "But  it  is  not 
Crewe  of  whom  I  am  thinking  now,  but  of  myself." 

"Yes?" 

"I  have  not  troubled  Augusta  with  the  details 
of  this  painful  affair.  For  one  thing,  she  has  not 
time  to  read  letters,  and  for  another  it  is  too 
long  to  write  about.  I  have  merely  told  her 
that  I  am  dissatisfied  with  Crewe,  and  conse- 
quently intending  to  dismiss  him.  But  I  must 
now  break  to  her  my  further  intention  of  taking 
up  our  residence  at  Welwysbere  once  more.  I 
can  no  longer  reconcile  it  with  my  conscience  to 
neglect  my  obvious  duty.  With  the  assistance  of 
young  Ash  and  his  accountant,  and  the  valuable 
help  afforded  us  by  poor  Crewe  himself,  during 
the  past  three  weeks,  I  have  pretty  well  come 
to  a  full  understanding  of  the  state  of  affairs,  and 
I  am  determined  to  act  upon  that  understanding. 
I  am  sure  that  Augusta  will — nay,  that  she  must 
— enter  into  my  feelings." 

Catherine  felt  equally  sure  she  would  not,  and 
foresaw  a  deadlock;  nor  did  Sir  Cecil's  careworn 
and  anxious  face  express  the  hope  and  certainty 
that  his  words  implied. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  215 

"You  will  now  understand,  my  dear  Catherine, 
why,  after  pressing  you  to  entrust  Philippa  to 
our  care,  I  have  been  unable  to  share  Augusta's 
pleasure  in  her  visit.  But  I  am  none  the  less 
grateful  to  you  for  sparing  her  to  us,  and  I  hope  to 
be  with  her  in  London  to-morrow.  I  wish  you 
had  been  able  to  accompany  her,"  said  the  inno- 
cent gentleman,  who  had  no  idea  that  Augusta 
had  not  included  Catherine  in  her  invitation. 
"But  you  are  not  to  be  tempted  from  your  duty 
here." 

"It  is  very  hard  to  know  where  one's  duty 
lies,"  said  Catherine,  with  a  smile  and  a  sigh. 
* '  Perhaps  I  cling  too  much  to  my  chosen  occupa- 
tions, and  should  rather  be  looking  after  my 
daughter." 

"I  am  sure  Augusta  will  take  every  care  of 
her,"  he  said,  believing  sincerely  that  he  spoke 
truth.  "You  know  that  we  look  upon  Philippa 
almost  as  our  own  child — ^and  a  child  to  be  proud 
of — "  he  added,  with  a  slight  characteristic  inclina- 
tion of  his  head  towards  Catherine,  as  though 
he  wished  to  intimate  that  he  acknowledged 
her  right  to  share  in  compliments  regarding  her 
offspring.  "It  is  a  great  consolation  to  me,  Cath- 
erine, that  the  next  owner  of  Welwysbere  should 
have  had  the  inestimable  benefit  and  advantage 
of  your  careful  training.  When  I  look  around 
me  here  I  never  fail  to  recognise  your — your 
positive  genius  for  administrative  order." 


216  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  Catherine,  smiling  in 
spite  of  herself,  "that  Phil  has  not  profited  much 
by  my  training,  such  as  it  is." 

"She  is  too  young  to  show  us  yet  what  she 
can  do.  Your  example  will  not  be  wasted  upon 
her  as  she  grows  older,"  he  said  with  conviction. 
"I  was  very  much  struck  at  Whitsuntide  by  the 
surprising  extent  of  her  knowledge  of  coimtry 
affairs,  and  the — the — remarkable  candour  and 
courage  with  which  she  expressed  her  opinions." 

"She  does  not  lack  candour  or  courage." 

"Believe  me,  in  the  position  Philippa  will  one 
day  be  called  upon  to  occupy,  those  qualities  are 
invaluable,"  said  Sir  Cecil,  earnestly,  and  Cath- 
erine could  not  deny  the  truth  of  his  contention. 

"Poor  Cecil!  they  say  he  is  so  like  his  uncle, 
when  he  is  but  the  shadow  of  Philip,"  she  thought, 
and  realised  more  strongly  than  ever  before  that 
Sir  Cecil's  magnificent  and  striking  appearance 
was  but  the  disguise  worn  by  a  dull  and  feeble 
personality. 

"And  he  looks  such  a  very  'parfitte  gentil 
Knight,'  "  she  thought  regretfully,  looking  up  at 
the  straight  clear-cut  profile. 

She  watched  him  as  he  rode  slowly  away,  a  fine 
horseman  on  a  fine  horse,  sitting  very  square 
and  erect  in  his  saddle,  with  a  carriage  of  the 
head  and  shoulders  silhouetted  against  the  sunset 
sky  that  made  his  likeness  to  her  dead  husband 
almost  painfully  exact. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  217 

He  had  declined  Catherine's  timid  offer  of 
supper,  for  it  woiild  not  have  occurred  to  Sir 
Cecil  as  possible  that,  having  ordered  his  dinner 
to  be  served  at  half-past  eight  as  usual,  he  should 
not  return  punctually  to  eat  it;  and  in  the  midst 
of  his  heartfelt  confidences  to  Catherine  he  did 
not  forget  to  glance  occasionally  at  his  watch, 
and  to  inquire  solicitously  whether  his  late  visit 
were  not  encroaching  upon  her  valuable  time. 
Thus  she  recollected  afterwards  that  it  was 
exactly  half-past  seven  when  Cecil  Adelstane 
took  leave  of  her,  and  rode  away  from  Shepherd's 
Rest  in  the  direction  of  his  home. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Philippa  was  of  an  age,  and  also  of  a  disposition, 
to  be  more  attracted  by  men  of  mature  age  than 
by  boys,  and  she  was  very  much  piqued,  upon 
arrival  at  the  Lundys'  party,  that  Colonel  Moore 
did  not  immediately  ask  her  to  dance.  Instead, 
he  took  up  a  position  by  Augusta's  side,  and 
remained  there  immovably;  smiling  at  the  boys 
and  girls  who  were  taking  a  more  active  part  in 
the  proceedings,  but  evincing  no  inclination  to 
join  them. 

Philippa  had  divined  that  her  adored  Mme. 
Minart  held  the  gallant  colonel  in  very  different 
estimation  from  the  rest  of  the  circle  which  at 
at  present  surrounded  her  young  charge.  Mme. 
Minart  was  perhaps  not  so  much  on  her  guard 
with  Philippa  as  she  would  have  been  with  a 
pupil  less  devoted  to  her;  and  she  permitted 
herself  to  laugh  quite  openly  at  Augusta,  thus 
destroying  the  last  shred  of  Philippa's  illusions 
regarding  her  cousin's  perfection. 

This  ridicule  was  not  altogether  in  accordance, 
however,  with  Philippa's  taste,  and  she  showed 
sufficient   uneasiness    and    disapproval    to    keep 

918 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  219 

Mme.  Minart's  wit  within  bounds,  which  she 
might  otherwise  have  exceeded,  through  the  live- 
liness of  her  disposition,  and  the  depths  of  her 
contempt  for  Lady  Adelstane's  understanding. 

But  although  David  Moore  did  not  invite 
Philippa,  nor  any  one  else,  to  dance  with  him,  but 
occupied  himself  incessantly  in  paying  attention 
to  the  elder  ladies  present,  he  yet  watched  her 
with  great  interest,  and  agreed  heartily  with 
Augusta's  whispered  opinions  that  she  was  much 
the  handsomest  of  all  the  youthful  beauties  there 
assembled. 

Augusta  had  really  bestowed  some  thought 
upon  the  selection  of  her  young  cousin's  dress, 
which  was  at  once  to  be  suitable  and  becom- 
ing for  a  large  dance,  and  yet  to  indicate  that 
the  wearer  had  not  yet  joined  the  ranks  of  the 
debutantes. 

As  Philippa's  height  and  development,  and 
the  sculptural  severity  of  her  straight  features, 
made  her  look  some  years  older  than  she  was, 
the  desired  effect  could  only  be  obtained  by  a 
school-girl  coiffure,  and  accordingly  her  bright 
chestnut  hair  was  combed  loosely  off  her  fair 
brow,  and  tied  with  an  immense  bow  at  the 
back  of  her  neck,  so  that  it  hung  in  a  single 
waving  cluster  of  curls  below  her  waist,  and  very 
hot  and  heavy  she  found  it.  She  was  much 
mortified  by  the  necessity  for  thus  advertising 
her  youth,   at  the  expense,  as  she  considered, 


220  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

of  her  appearance;  and  the  youthful  Lord  Ken- 
tisbury  sympathised  warmly  with  her  indignation, 
which  she  confided  to  him,  for  they  were  by  this 
time  on  very  friendly  terms. 

"Though  you're  quite  wrong,  you  know,  to 
think  it  isn't  becoming,"  he  hastened  to  assure 
her  I  "I  bet  you  anything  that  any  girl  in  the 
room  would  like  to  wear  her  hair  like  that — if 
she  had  hair  like  yours." 

"Nonsense,  it  looks  ridiculous,"  said  Philippa, 
but  she  blushed  with  pleasure,  for  the  language 
of  compliment — from  the  lips  of  a  young  man — 
was  new  to  her. 

"But,  of  course,  it's  a  beastly  shame  not  to 
let  you  do  it  as  you  choose.  Extraordinary  thing, 
one's  people  never  believe  one  knows  what  one 
likes  best." 

"And  what  suits  one  best,"  said  Philippa, 
seriously;  "though  I  am  very  grateful  to  Cousin 
Augusta  for  taking  such  pains  to  choose  such  a 
lovely  dress  for  me,  you  know,  Charlie." 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  gravely,  and  if  the  young 
man  smiled  inwardly  at  the  ingenuousness  and 
country  simplicity  which  enabled  Philippa  thus 
to  discuss  her  toilette  with  him,  he  did  not  like 
her  any  the  less  for  such  a  display  of  confidence. 
In  fact,  to  the  delight  and  astonishment  of  his 
mother,  the  youthful  marquis  seemed  inclined 
to  fall  in  love  with  the  very  maiden  she  had 
selected   for  him   (with  the  aid  of  Lady  Sarah 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  221 

and  Augusta)  as  the  most  suitable  bride  in  the 
world. 

Excitement  and  pleasure  had  this  evening 
bestowed  upon  Philippa  all  the  animation  which 
she  usually  lacked,  and  in  her  white  and  silver 
gown,  which  half  revealed  and  half  concealed 
the  fair  arms  and  fairer  throat,  her  childish, 
noble  beauty  of  form  and  feature  shone  con- 
spicuously, even  among  so  many  pretty,  weU- 
dressed,  well-bred,  and  well-drilled  maidens. 

"I  had  no  idea  she  was  half  so  good-looking," 
said  Augusta  contentedly;  "she  will  be  quite  a 
beauty,  you  know,  in  a  few  years'  time,  and 
she  has  lost  a  great  deal  of  her  gaucherie  already, 
in  the  short  time  she  has  been  with  me.  You 
see  what  a  difference  it  makes  when  a  girl  is 
properly  dressed." 

"I  am  going  to  make  you  angry,"  said  David, 
"with  my  perversity  in  assuring  you  that  I 
found  her  as  handsome  at  Welwysbere  in  her 
blue  frock  and  garden  hat." 

"Oh,  that  is  all  nonsense!  Or  if  you  did,  no 
one  else  could.  I  will  tell  you  a  secret.  We  are 
all  determined  to  marry  her  to  the  yoimg  man 
cshe  is  dancing  with  now." 

A  man  of  five-and-thirty  is  seldom  pleased 
to  hear  that  a  beautiful  girl  is  destined  to  be  be- 
stowed in  marriage  upon  a  youth  of  her  own 
age. 

"Fancy   wasting  her   on   a   cub   like   that," 


222  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

David  thought,  with  disgust.     "That  boy!"  he 
said  aloud,  in  sufficiently  expressive  accents. 

"That  boy,  as  you  call  him,"  said  Augusta, 
somewhat  nettled,  "is " 

"Oh,  I  know  who  he  is,"  said  David,  who  was 
a  trifle  outspoken  for  the  London  fashionable 
world,  where,  to  say  the  truth,  he  did  not  feel 
much  at  home.  "It  is  young  Kentisbury,  and  I 
have  no  doubt  he  would  be  considered  a  first-rate 
match.  I  know  he  is  one  of  our  biggest  land- 
owners  " 

"He  is  quite  a  charming  young  man — ^and  a 
cousin  of  Cecil's,"  interrupted  Augusta,  rather 
coldly. 

"A  pity  nature  hasn't  given  him  a  better 
profile,"  retorted  David;  "a  fellow  with  such  an 
outline  has  no  choice  but  to  be  a  fool." 

Augusta  was  inclined  to  be  annoyed;  but  she 
reflected  that  Colonel  Moore  was  a  hero  and 
somewhat  of  a  lion,  so  that  if  his  manners  were 
rough  he  could  be  smiled  upon  indulgently  all 
the  same;  because  such  want  of  polish  was  in 
keeping,  as  she  considered,  with  the  character. 

"You  are  really  incorrigible.  And  why  are 
you  not  dancing?  You  have  stuck  by  my 
side  the  whole  evening,"  she  reproached  him, 
coquettishly. 

"I  don't  know  any  of  them.  They  belong  to 
a  different  world,"  said  David.  "And  all  these 
strange  dances  are  Greek  to  me,  to  tell  you  the 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  223 

truth.  A  plain  waltz  or  polka  is  all  very  well, 
but  these  mazurkas  and  reels  and  whatnots  are 
out  of  my  line." 

"It  is  only  for  the  boys  and  girls — ^who  learn 
all  sorts  of  wonderful  dances  nowadays,"  said 
Augusta.  "I  am  told  a  children's  party  of  to-day 
is  a  very  pretty  sight." 

"Well  this  is  a  children's  party,  and  I  am  sure 
it  is  a  pretty  sight." 

"No,  no,  children's  parties  belong  to  the  win- 
ter. This  is  a  real  boy  and  girl  affair,  and  I  am 
quite  glad  such  dances  have  come  into  fashion 
again.  It  is  as  it  should  be.  I  have  no  patience 
with  all  these  middle-aged  married  women  pranc- 
ing about,"  said  Augusta,  with  an  indignation 
not  the  less  warm  because  her  increasing  em- 
bonpoint and  breathlessness  had  long  rendered 
such  prancing  quite  impossible  for  her. 

But  her  indignation  was  transitory,  for  Augusta 
was  in  high  good  humour.  Everything  was  as  it 
should  be.  Many  of  her  best  friends  were  present, 
and  her  hostess  had  found  time  to  congratulate 
her  warmly  upon  the  beauty  of  her  debutante. 

The  summer  night  was  perfect,  still  and  warm; 
so  that  the  open  windows,  and  the  blocks  of 
green  transparent  ice,  overshadowed  by  roses 
and  palms,  which  decorated  every  comer  of  the 
rooms  were  at  once  necessary  and  agreeable. 
The  house  was  pleasantly  cool  without  being 
draughty. 


224  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

The  courtyard,  transformed  into  a  tent,  which 
was  also  a  bower  of  blossom,  was  so  perfectly 
arranged  as  to  be  quite  as  cool  and  comfortable 
as  the  house;  and  the  supper  here  was  every- 
thing Augusta  could  wish. 

She  enjoyed  her  prawns  in  aspic  and  stuffed 
quail,  and  Peche  Melba,  in  company  with  Major 
Cymbert,  with  whom  she  spent  a  very  pleasant 
hour  at  a  little  table  in  a  comer,  while  the 
conscientious  Philippa  searched  in  vain  for  her 
chaperon. 

Philippa's  conscientiousness  was  not  the  least 
part  of  her  charm,  and  there  was  something 
piquant  in  the  combination  of  so  much  primness 
with  so  much  beauty,  which  atoned  for  her 
excessive  dignity  of  bearing  towards  the  young 
gentlemen  who  were  her  partners. 

Young  Lord  Kentisbury,  to  be  sure,  was  treated 
with  especial  confidence,  but  then  he  was  a 
cousin,  and  an  acquaintance  of  some  days'  stand- 
ing. But  even  Charlie  was  not  permitted  to  es- 
cort her  round  the  illuminated  garden,  as  he 
ardently  proposed  and  desired. 

Augusta  had  told  Philippa  that  she  was  to 
return  to  her  side  after  every  dance,  and  that  any 
other  course  of  proceeding  was  not  good  form, 
and  Philippa  was  quite  determined  that  she 
would  be  good  form.  In  matters  where  she  was 
less  well  instructed,  however,  she  displayed  her 
natural  independence  of  character  very  plainly; 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  225 

and  when  her  hostess  led  up  to  her  a  would-be 
partner  whose  appearance  did  not  attract  her, 
and  who  bashfully  invited  her  to  dance,  the 
young  lady  said  "No,  thank  you,"  without  a 
moment's  hesitation,  and,  with  no  idea  of  soften- 
ing her  blunt  refusal  by  murmured  excuses  of 
previous  engagements,  she  turned  her  back  upon 
the  astonished  youth. 

Colonel  Moore  was  an  amused  spectator  of  this 
little  incident,  and,  being  of  an  unconventional 
and  indeed  somewhat  over-candid  disposition 
himself,  was  disposed  rather  to  admire  than  to 
condemn  the  frankness  of  Philippa's  behaviour. 
He  stepped  forward,  invited  her  to  go  down  to 
supper,  and  was  flattered  by  the  alacrity  of  her 
acceptance. 

"I  have  been  down  three  times  already,"  she 
informed  him,  as  he  found  her  the  strawberry  ice 
she  chose  as  her  refreshment.  * '  Boys  are  always 
wanting  supper." 

"Then  I  presume  you  have  had  something 
more  substantial  on  one  of  the  three  occasons." 

"No,  I  had  a  strawberry  ice  every  time,"  said 
PhiHppa,  calmly.  "It  seems  to  me  stupid  to 
waste  time  over  eating  and  drinking  when  one  is 
enjoying  oneself." 

"I  am  glad  you  are  enjoying  yourself." 

She  coloured. 

"I  should  be  enjoying  myself  more  if  I  danced 
better.     I  dance   badly,"    she  said  in  mortified 

15 


226  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

tones.  "Yet  I  had  lessons  when  I  was  twelve. 
A  man  came  all  the  way  from  Bath  to  teach  me. 
But  I  have  been  obliged  to  sit  out  most  of  the 
dances — ^with  my  partners,  of  course,"  she  added 
with  dignity.  "When  they  have  sensible  things 
hke  waltzes  and  polkas  of  course  I  can  dance." 

"That  is  just  what  I  have  been  saying." 

"It  is  different  for  you.  You  have  been  in 
deserts  and  places.  No  one  expects  you  to  care 
about  such  nonsense.  But  I  ought  to  know  all 
the  things  the  other  people  of  my  age  know," 
she  said  resentfully. 

"But  still  you  are  enjoying  yourself." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  have  never  enjoyed  anything  so 
much.  It  all  looks  like  fairyland.  The  house  is 
like  an  enchanted  palace.  I  have  never  seen 
anything  like  it  before.  The  girls  wear  such 
lovely  frocks.  I  wish  I  knew  them  all.  They  all 
seem  to  know  each  other,"  she  said  wistfully, 
"but  I  scarcely  know  any  one  except  Joanna, 
Charlie's  horrid  sister,  whom  I  can't  bear.  But 
still  it  is  delicious;  and  the  roses  are  much  more 
beautiful  than  any  we  ever  grow." 

He  smiled. 

"Does  it  not  seem  a  pity  to  waste  such  perfect 
blooms  on  a  single  evening?" 

Philippa  considered  the  question  seriously. 

"No,  I  do  not  think  it  does,"  she  remarked, 
practically.  "Roses  only  last  a  very  few  days 
even  if  you  don't  cut  them,  and  only  a  few  people 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  227 

see  them  in  a  garden.  And  if  you  do  cut  them, 
even  with  the  greatest  care,  changing  the  water 
and  chpping  the  stalks  as  mamma  always  does — 
they  are  never  the  same  the  day  after  they're 
gathered.  What  can  it  matter  if  they  live  only 
half  the  usual  time,  so  long  as  they  look  pretty 
and  please  people?" 

"There  is  a  good  deal  in  that,"  he  said,  laugh- 
ing; and  then  he  thought  suddenly  of  Delia — 
with  that  contraction  of  the  heart  which  accom- 
panies a  remembrance  of  the  beloved  dead  in  the 
midst  of  gaiety  or  rejoicing — Delia,  who  would 
be  always  young  and  beautiful  in  his  memory 
and  in  the  memory  of  all  who  loved  her,  because 
she  too  had  lived  only  half  the  usual  time,  and 
had  looked  pretty  and  pleased  people. 

"Do  you  go  to  a  great  many  parties?" 
said  Philippa's  voice,  breaking  in  upon  his 
reflections. 

* '  I  have  been  to  one  or  two.  Now  I  have  come 
to  live  in  London,  I  suppose  I  must  do  as  others 
do,  more  or  less." 

"Don't  you  like  living  in  London?" 

"I  like  my  work,  now  I'm  beginning  to  get  into 
it;  but  of  course  working  in  an  office  all  day, 
when  one  is  used  to  an  outdoor  life,  is  a  bit  irk- 
some," said  David,  rather  surprised  to  find  him- 
self talking  almost  confidentially  to  this  mere 
child,  as  he  told  himself  she  was;  but  the  deep 
blue,    long-lashed  eyes  were  fixed  with   sincere 


228  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

interest  upon  him,  and  a  child  who  is  sympa- 
thetic and  who  believes  in  the  speaker  is  a  good 
listener. 

Philippa  criticised  Catherine;  secretly  believ- 
ing herself  wiser  than  her  mother,  and  indeed 
than  any  of  her  relatives;  as  the  majority  of 
yoimg  people,  secretly  or  openly,  always  have 
been  accustomed  to  consider  themselves  wiser 
than  their  parents  and  guardians.  But  she  did 
not  criticise  David  Moore,  and  was,  on  the  con- 
trary, exceedingly  flattered  that  he  should  talk 
to  her  thus,  and  pleased  to  observe  that  young 
Kentisbury  hovered  round  uneasily,  not  daring 
to  interrupt,  nor  to  claim  his  partner  for  the 
dance  that  was  lawfully  his  own.  For,  though 
he  might  be  one  of  the  largest  land-owners  in 
Great  Britain,  and  the  head  of  a  noble  house,  he 
was  also  a  subaltern  in  the  Guards,  and  enter- 
tained a  very  wholesome  respect  for  his  distin- 
guished senior, 

"What  is  your  work.  Cousin  David?" 
"Sitting  in   a  very   small  room  and  writing 
endless  letters,"  he  said  smihng. 

"Why  do  they  want  a  soldier  to  do  that?" 
"Because  the  letters  have  to  do  with  military 
subjects." 

"I  see,  and  they  want  some  one  with  practi- 
cal experience,"  said  Philippa,  nodding.  "That 
seems  sensible.  But  when  will  you  go  back  to 
fighting?" 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  229 

"Why,  in  the  next  war,  I  hope!"  he  said, 
laughing.  "But  in  the  ordinary  course  I  shall 
go  back  to  soldiering  in  about  three  years,  I 
expect.  All  depends  upon  how  I  get  on,  you 
know." 

"I  would  rather  do  active  work  than  writing, 
but  of  course  one  ought  to  try  all  kinds  of  life," 
said  Philippa,  very  calmly. 

"Do  you  want  to  try  all  kinds  of-  life?"  he 
said,  half  jesting  and  half  earnestly. 

"I  intend  to,"  she  said,  very  seriously.  "So 
far  as  a  girl  can,  you  know.  Of  course  one  cannot 
do  all  one  wishes,  like  a  man.  But  I  would  like 
to  see  a  great  many  people,  and  visit  a  great 
many  countries,  before  I  settled  down  in  my 
own  home  for  good." 

"Would  it  not  make  home  seem  dull  after- 
wards?" 

"No,"  said  Philippa,  surprised;  "when  one  has 
seen  everything  one  is  content  to  settle  down; 
not  when  one  has  seen  nobody  and  been  nowhere. 
Unless  indeed,"  she  added  thoughtfully,  "one 
has  a  very  vivid  imagination  and  is  very  fond 
of  books,  like  mamma.  She  is  quite  contented  to 
read  about  things  and  says  it's  the  same  as  seeing 
them.    It's  not  the  same  to  me." 

"Nor  to  me,"  said  David,  simply,  "though 
I'm  fond  enough  of  reading." 

"But  you  will  settle  down  some  day." 

''Shall  I?"  said  David.    "Well,  I  suppose  so"i 


230  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

he  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Most  men  dream 
of  settling  down  some  day,  but  I  should  like 
to  cling  on  a  little  longer  before  I  indulge  in  such 
dreams." 

"When  will  they  make  you  a  K.C.B.?" 

"Probably  never,"  but  he  smiled. 

"They  are  sure  to  in  the  end,"  she  said  con- 
fidently. "If  I  were  a  man  I  should  be  prouder 
of  the  honours  I  had  earned  than  of  the  honours 
I  inherited." 

"So  would  I,  in  a  way — ^though,  in  my  case, 
there's  no  one  in  particular  left  to  care  whether 
I  get  any  or  not,  which  does  away  with  pride 
altogether." 

"Why — we're  all  proud  of  you,"  cried  Phi- 
lippa,  indignantly,  "but  I  would  like  you  to  get  a 
K.C.B.,"  she  added,  and  then  blushed  at  her  own 
enthusiasm.  The  warm  flush  softened  her  severe 
young  beauty  into  a  loveliness  that  must  have  ap- 
pealed to  a  harder  heart  than  David's,  who  could 
not  be  insensible  to  such  innocent  flattery. 

"Then  I  must  do  my  best  to  win  my  spurs — 
when  so  fair  a  princess  bids  me,"  he  said,  laughing 
and  colouring;  but  he  drew  the  slender  hand 
through  his  arm  rather  tenderly,  as  he  led  Phi- 
lippa  upstairs. 

After  this  interlude  he  was  conscious  of  a 
slight  change  in  the  sentiments  with  which  he 
regarded  the  tall,  youthful  vestal  in  white  and 
silver,  who  but  a  few  moments  since  had  been  to 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  231 

him  only  Catherine's  child.  He  realised  that 
Philippa  had  entered  upon  her  inheritance  of 
womanhood,  and  had  a  very  distinct  personality 
and  will  and  wishes  of  her  own. 

"And  Catherine  said  she  was  a  baby,"  he  re- 
flected, and  laughed  slightly  to  himself,  forgetting 
that  the  side  of  her  character  which  Philippa 
had  shown  him  was  different  indeed  from  that 
which  she  exhibited  towards  her  mother. 

There  was  another  person  whose  first  careless 
sentiments  of  admiration  and  liking  were  changing 
towards  Philippa  Adelstane;  but  as  young  Lord 
Kentisbury  was  some  fifteen  years  younger  than 
David  Moore,  this  change  was  proportionately 
swifter;  and  his  boyish  compliments  became 
open  declarations  of  love  before  the  close  of  that 
memorable  dance. 

Philippa  drove  home  with  her  chaperon  through 
the  grey  dawn  of  the  streets,  too  much  excited  to 
perceive  the  odd  appearance  which  Augusta's 
complexion  presented  in  the  unkind  light  of  the 
morning. 

Charlie's  protestations  rang  in  her  ears,  only 
to  be  dismissed  with  scorn  as  boyish  nonsense 
at  one  moment,  and  recalled  at  the  next  as  sweet- 
est food  for  maiden  vanity. 

Other  words  had  made  a  deeper  impression 
upon  her  than  the  babble  of  young  Kentisbury. 

"He  said — he  said  he  would  do  his  best  to  win 
his  spurs  " — thought  Philippa,  with  burning  cheeks 


232  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

and  beating  heart,  *'as  though  he  had  not  won 
them  a  thousand  times  over  if  there  were  any 
justice  in  this  world." 

Catherine  had  acquired  the  habit  of  sitting  up 
late  and  reading,  in  the  hope  that  she  might  thus  be 
able  to  court  sleep  the  more  easily  when  she  at 
last  retired  to  rest.  Miss  Dulcinea  kept  early- 
hours,  and  as  she  led  an  active  outdoor  life,  and 
was  possessed  of  a  peculiarly  peaceful  tempera- 
ment, she  found  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  nine 
or  ten  hours  sleep  out  of  the  twenty-four.  But 
with  the  departure  of  Philippa,  the  demon  worry 
had  taken  possession  of  poor  Catherine's  pillow; 
presenting  to  her  tormented  imagination  a  thou- 
sand vivid  pictures  of  her  child  in  danger  and 
difficulty,  so  that  she  sometimes  started  up  with 
the  cold  dews  of  anguish  and  terror  breaking  forth 
on  her  brow;  ready  to  dash  off,  as  it  were,  into 
the  darkness  of  the  night,  and  rescue  her  darhng 
from  she  knew  not  what.  It  was  the  thought 
of  Philippa's  own  vexation  at  such  an  exhibition 
of  maternal  over-fondness  that  alone  restrained  her 
from  actually  putting  into  practice  in  the  daytime 
the  plans  she  evolved  in  the  silence  of  the  night, 
for  travelling  up  to  town,  and  seeing  for  herself 
how  her  child  was  faring  at  the  hands  of  Augusta. 

In  the  daylight  she  could  view  the  matter  more 
calmly,  put  a  curb  upon  her  nervous  fancy,  and 
dwell  with  pleasure  on  the  thought  that  in  a 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  233 

few  weeks  Philippa  must  be  restored  to  her.  But 
in  the  dark,  philosophy  failed ;  she  tossed  sleepless 
until  the  dawn  brought  its  own  strange  soothing, 
and  the  gleam  of  a  new  day  breaking  over  the 
spires  of  the  larches  somehow  calmed  her  troubled 
spirit,  so  that  she  would  be  sleeping  heavily  at 
the  hour  when  she  was  accustomed  to  rise. 

She  had  discovered,  or  fancied,  that  the  demon 
was  in  part  exorcised  by  a  few  moments  spent  in 
the  silent  immensity  of  the  night  outside  her 
cottage,  before  she  went  up  to  her  own  room; 
and  on  the  night  of  Cecil's  visit  she  closed  her 
book  a  little  before  twelve  o'clock,  and  stole  out 
into  the  garden,  opening  the  door  very  softly  that 
the  sleeping  household  might  not  be  disturbed. 
Here  she  was  able  to  forget  that  Philippa  was 
at  the  present  moment  very  probably  over-heating 
or  over-tiring  herself  in  a  London  ballroom; 
she  forgot  to  wonder  concerning  her  child's  health 
or  her  appearance,  or  the  measure  of  her  filial 
affection;  and  stood,  with  hushed  breath  and 
tranquil  spirit,  gazing  across  the  quiet  enclosure 
of  her  own  beloved  domain — so  unfamiliar  and 
ghostlike  in  the  light  of  a  pale  moon,  obscured 
by  scudding  clouds — to  the  valley  below,  half 
veiled  in  a  faint  silver  mist,  whence  emerged 
the  dark  outline  of  the  square  church  tower 
which  marked  Philip  Adelstane's  resting-place. 
She  looked  upwards  to  the  innumerable  glittering 
worlds  of  the  silent  unfathomable  universe;   and 


234  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

as  she  looked  her  cares,  her  troubles,  and  her 
anxieties  appeared  small  and  transient,  even  to 
vanishing  point. 

Then  a  sound  recalled  them,  and  her  musing 
spirit  returned,  hurried  and  alarmed,  to  earth 
and  the  life  of  every  day. 

There  was  the  gleam  of  a  lantern  through  the 
hedge;  the  sound,  unusual  at  this  hour,  of  a 
man's  step  in  the  lane  beyond  her  garden  gate. 

"What  is  it?  I  am  here,"  she  called,  with  that 
sudden  leap  of  the  heart  too  familiar  to  one 
whose  days  and  nights  are  shadowed  with  that 
nameless  apprehension  of  motherhood. 

At  the  gate  the  man  lifted  his  lantern,  and 
slackened  his  pace  coming  up  the  path,  as  though 
to  get  breath  for  his  intended  communication, 
and  Catherine  suddenly  sighed  with  relief  to 
perceive  he  was  not  from  the  post-office. 

It  could  not  then  be  a  telegram  concerning 
Philippa;  her  fears  lessened,  and  she  stood  await- 
ing him  in  the  open  doorway,  which  threw  a 
square  illumination  on  the  gravel  path  and  lawn; 
in  which  he  presently  stood,  and  revealed  him- 
self as  a  groom  from  the  Abbey. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  my  lady,"  he  panted, 
"they  sent  me  up — I  said  I  cude  run  in  the  time 
it  wude  take  tu  get  back  tu  stable  and  saddle  a 
harse.  'Tis  a  dreadful  accident,  my  lady,  has 
happened  tu  Sir  Cecil." 

"An  accident!" 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  235 

"Oh,  my  lady,  I  don't  know  how  tu  tell  on't.  I 
be  arl  shaking  myself,"  said  the  man,  with  a 
sob  of  agitation.  "Him  didn't  come  home  tu's 
dinner  as  usual,  and  us  was  surprised,  vor  yu 
know  how  punctual  he  du  be.  But  us  didn't 
know  where  he  was  and  thart  he'd  been  detained 
like.  And  about  an  hour  ago  some  one  brart 
word  his  harse  had  been  seen  grazing  down  tu 
Aplin's  vield,  wi'  his  bridle  broke.  Us  arl  started 
out  then  in  a  fright  tu  luke  vor'm;  and  vound 
*un,  my  lady — now  doantee  be  opset  like,"  said 
the  man  in  a  pleading  voice  of  subdued  grief  and 
excitement;  "we'm  vound  'un  tu  the  bottom  of 
the  lane  here,  at  the  turning  arf  the  high  road. 
There  be  the  mark  where  the  harse  putt  im's 
fute  tu  a  hole  and  fell,  where  zum  vule  had  hitched 
out  a  big  stone  to  stiddy  a  waggon,  very  like; 
and  us  thinks  the  master's  head  must  have  struck 
the  stone  in  farling,  my  lady;  vor  'tis  clear  he 
never  muved  no  mar,  and  the  doctor  says  as  the 
life  has  been  out  of  him  vor  hours." 

Catherine  was  too  much  stunned  to  speak.  The 
life  had  been  out  of  him  for  hours,  and  that  evening 
he  had  bidden  her  farewell,  with  a  smile  on  his 
handsome  lips;  and  ridden  away,  in  the  very 
prime  and  glory  of  his  manhood,  full  of  thought 
and  hope  and  planning  for  the  morrow — ^who  now 
lay  low  in  the  silence  of  death. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  MESSENGER  With  a  letter  was  despatched  by  the 
one  o'clock  train  from  Ilverton,  which  was  due 
to  arrive  in  London  in  the  early  morning;  and 
Catherine,  to  whom  all  arrangements  were  of 
necessity  referred,  thus  broke  the  terrible  news 
of  Sir  Cecil's  fatal  accident  as  tenderly  as  possible 
to  Augusta,  and  added  a  request  that  a  message 
might  be  sent  at  once  to  old  Lady  Sarah's  faithful 
maid,  who  would  best  know  how  to  prepare  her 
aged  mistress  for  the  shock  that  awaited  her. 

Through  the  long  and  dreary  morning  which 
succeeded  the  catastrophe,  she  waited  anxiously 
for  a  telegram  from  Augusta,  making  no  doubt 
that  she  and  Philippa  would  come  home  by  the 
first  possible  train.  But  the  day  was  well  ad- 
vanced before  the  telegram  arrived,  and  the  con- 
tents were  not  at  all  what  Catherine  expected. 

"Absolutely  prostrate  and  helpless.  Please 
come  here  at  once  and  without  delay.  Urgent. — 
Augusta." 

*'She  ought  to  come  home.  How  can  she  leave 
him  lying  there  alone,  and  not  come? "  said  Cather- 
ine, shedding  indignant  tears.     "What  can  I  do? 

236 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  237 

It  is  not  as  if  I  had  ever  been  anything  to  Augusta, 
or  she  to  me." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  you  are  kind  and 
gentle;  and  she  is  a  very  helpless  person,  as  she 
truly  says.  I  am  sure  I  should  want  you  if  I 
were  in  such  a  trouble  as  hers,"  sobbed  Miss  Dul- 
cinea,  who  had  been  completely  overcome  by  the 
news  which  greeted  her  on  waking. 

"Of  course  I  must  go  if  she  wants  me,"  Cath- 
erine said,  almost  angrily,  "but  it  will  only  be  to 
bring  her  back;  and  if  she  wanted  me  without 
delay,  why  did  she  delay  so  that  I  can  only  go  by 
the  slow  afternoon  train,  which  does  not  get  there 
until  past  nine  o'clock  at  night?" 

But  there  was  a  gleam  of  comfort  in  her  sor- 
row at  the  thought  that  her  child  must  now  be 
restored  to  her  arms. 

"And  I  shall  never  let  her  go  again — to  suffer 
as  I  have  suffered,"  thought  Catherine,  "after  this 
terrible  lesson  of  the  uncertainty  of  life." 

She  wept  as  she  packed  a  very  few  things  in  a 
small  hand-case  and  dressing-bag,  resolved  that 
no  entreaties  of  Augusta  shoiild  detain  her  or 
Philippa  in  London. 

"It  is  Cecil,  poor,  poor  Cecil,  to  whom  we  owe 
all  the  duty  and  affection  and  respect  which  we 
shall  ever  be  able  to  show  him  now,"  she  sobbed. 
"What  is  Augusta  to  us? — cold  and  selfish,  think- 
ing only  of  her  own  health  and  comfort  while  he 
lies  dead  in  his  own  house — the  last  of  his  race, 


238  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

except  my  darling!"  Then  she  sank  back  in  her 
chair,  appalled  by  the  recollection  that  the  heavy 
burden  of  responsibility  which  had  fallen  from 
the  dead  man's  shoulders  would  now  devolve  upon 
her  child. 

It  was  Philippa  who  was  the  last  of  the  Adel- 
stanes — ^whose  inheritance  had  thus,  with  terri- 
ble suddenness,  come  upon  her — and  Catherine's 
heart  sank  as  she  thought  of  the  changes  awaiting 
her. 

Strive  as  she  would  to  put  all  such  thoughts 
aside,  they  returned  upon  her  again  and  again 
while  she  made  ready  for  her  solitary  journey. 

"Take  me  with  you,"  implored  Lily,  clinging 
about  her  with  passionate  tears  and  distressing 
persistence. 

"I  cannot,  Lily,  but  I  will  come  back  to-morrow. 
Yes,  I  promise,"  said  Catherine,  strengthening  her 
own  resolution  by  thus  giving  her  word  to  the 
child.  "You  will  take  care  of  Aunt  Dulcinea 
and  of  everything  for  me?" 

"You  must  not  be  troublesome,"  said  Aunt 
Dulcinea,  admonishing  her  very  kindly;  but  she 
shook  her  head  over  the  selfishness  of  Lily,  though 
she  had  always  foimd  a  thousand  excuses  for 
the  selfishness  of  Philippa. 

"Aunt  Clara  will  come  and  fetch  me  when  you 
are  gone,"  said  Lily,  bursting  into  fresh  tears. 

"I  wouldn't  let  you  go,"  said  Aunt  Dulcinea, 
and  her  soft  heart  melted. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  239 

**I  shall  be  back  before  they  know  I  am  gone," 
said  Catherine  soothingly. 

"Granny  knows  everything,  and  Aunt  Dulcinea 
is  frightened  of  Granny — you  know  she  is,"  said 
Lily.  "But  if  you  will  forbid  me  to  go,  I  can  tell 
them  so  when  they  come  for  me." 

"There,  there,  I  forbid  you,"  said  Catherine, 
and  she  fondled  the  little  fragile  creature  who 
clung  to  her  so  faithfully. 

Exhausted  by  grief,  wakefulness,  and  excite- 
ment, Catherine  fell  asleep  in  the  train  as  daylight 
waned,  and  was  astonished  when  she  woke, 
somewhat  chilled  and  stiff,  to  find  herself  at  her 
journey's  end. 

By  the  time  her  cab  drew  up  at  the  house  in 
Belgrave  Square  she  had  realised  afresh  all  that 
had  happened,  and  the  tears  started  again  to  her 
eyes  at  the  sight  of  the  old  butler's  familiar  face 
at  the  front  door.  She  greeted  him  kindly,  for 
his  own  distress  was  very  obvious. 

"Is  Lady  Adelstane  able  to  see  me  at  once? 
And  where  is  Miss  Philippa?  Is  she  sitting  up 
for  me?  I  should  like  to  go  first  to  her,"  she 
said,  wringing  the  old  man's  hand,  which  he  put 
out  to  her  trembling,  as  though  he  scarce  knew 
what  he  did. 

"Oh,  ma'am — oh,  my  lady!"  said  Pilkington. 

"Do  not — do  not — I  know  it  is  terrible — but 
indeed  we  must  not  give  way,"  said  Catherine 
with  a  sob  in  her  throat. 


240  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"We  wasn't  sure — we  didn't  send  to  meet  you — 
my  lady,  but — you  came  by  the  four  o'clock 
train?"  he  faltered. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  surprised. 

"And  there  was  no — you  did  not  get  the 
second  telegram?  I  am  afraid  it  was  sent  off 
too  late.  But  her  ladyship  was  that  distracted — 
she  didn't  well  know  what  she  was  doing." 

*  *  What  do  you  mean  ? ' ' 

"Oh,  my  lady,  come  in!  You  mustn't  stand 
here — ^what  am  I  thinking  of  ?  Come  in — come  in , " 
said  Pilkington.  "Her  ladyship's  upstairs,  most 
out  of  her  mind,  and  here's  dinner  ready  for 
you  in  the  dining-room." 

Catherine  followed  him,  almost  wondering  to 
see  the  steady  and  self-possessed  Pilkington  thus 
utterly  unstrung. 

"What  second  telegram?"  she  repeated  as  he 
closed  the  dining-room  door  upon  the  little  com- 
motion in  the  hall — the  footmen  carrying  in  her 
modest  luggage  and  paying  the  cabman. 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  with  an  expression 
so  imploring  as  to  be  almost  wild. 

"To  ask  you — ^whether — to  ask  you  if — Miss 
Philippa  had  gone  back  to  Welwysbere — to  you, 
my  lady?"  he  cried,  putting  his  shaking  hands 
together.  "For  she's  not  been  seen  here  since  she 
came  home  from  the  dance  at  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning." 

Catherine  knew  not  what  she  said  nor  what 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  241 

she  looked,  and  was  not  conscious  how  she  got  out 
of  the  room  or  upstairs;  but  the  echo  of  Pilking- 
ton's  words  had  not  died  from  her  ears  before 
she  found  herself  holding  Augusta's  shoulder  in 
the  drawing-room,  almost  shaking  her — ^hoarsely 
asking  her  over  and  over  again  what  she  had  done 
with  her  child.  She  was  in  truth  for  a  few  mo- 
ments like  a  mad  woman,  knowing  not  what  she 
said  nor  what  Augusta  answered.  The  pent-up 
thoughts,  suppressed  anxiety,  and  hidden  jealous 
resentment  of  weeks  found  words  and  poured 
themselves  forth,  but  so  incoherently  as  merely 
to  frighten  Augusta  without  reaching  her  under- 
standing. All  she  knew  and  felt  was  that  Cather- 
ine was  like  one  possessed  and  insane  with  blind 
fury,  and  that  such  behaviour  towards  a  woman 
just  bereaved  of  her  husband  was  an  outrage. 
She  screamed  with  terror  and  indignation,  and 
it  was  Mme.  Minart  who  fie^^v  to  her  assistance 
and  who  put  Catherine  into  a  chair  by  the  open 
window  with  a  mixture  of  authority  and  soothing, 
and  forced  her  presently  to  swallow  a  glass  of  wine. 

"Who  are  you?"  Catherine  faltered,  regaining 
some  measure  of  her  self-command. 

"I  am  nobody — nothing,"  said  Mme.  Minart 
in  her  impatient  tones  of  suppressed  force.  She 
fixed  her  great  dark  eyes  upon  Catherine's  white 
face  with  some  compassion.  "Be  calm.  Of 
what  use  this  agony,  this  emotion  ?  It  is  not  thus 
you  can  help  yourself  or  others." 
I* 


242  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

Catherine  gave  her  a  strange  wild  look. 

"I  know  now  who  you  are.  You  are  right — I 
must  be  calm.  I  must  think — and  act."  She 
put  her  hands  to  her  hair,  smoothed  it,  and  rose 
from  the  arm-chair,  refreshed  physically  by  the 
wine  and  mentally  by  the  Frenchwoman's  re- 
proaches. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Augusta,"  said  Catherine, 
and  her  voice  grew  almost  steady.  "Now  tell 
me  quickly  and  plainly  what  has  happened,  and 
what  you  have  done  with  Philippa." 

Augusta,  fat  and  helpless,  reclining  on  a  Louis 
Seize  couch  among  embroidered  cushions,  and 
clothed  in  flowing  lace  draperies,  was  in  very 
poor  case  to  speak  quickly  or  plainly. 

"Everjrthing  has  happened,"  she  wailed — 
"everything  at  once.  It  is  appalling!  I  sent 
for  you — what  more  could  I  do?  I  am  sure 
you  cannot  reproach  me  more  than  I  reproach 
myself  for  ever  undertaking  the  charge  of  another 
person's  child.  But  he  wished  it.  I  can't  realise 
what  has  happened,  I  am  like  a  person  in  a 
dream.  Oh,  Catherine!  he  can't  really  be  dead — 
all  in  a  moment  like  that" — ^her  voice  rose  to  a 
scream — "and  you  to  come  and  reproach  me!" 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  lace  handkerchief, 
really  unable  to  continue,  and  Catherine  wrung 
her  hands  in  distress  and  impatience. 

"Where  is  Roper?  I  trusted  my  child  to  her," 
she  said,  turning  to  the  door. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  243 

"Roper  knows  nothing.  I  will  tell  you,  since 
Miladi  cannot,"  said  Mme.  Minart.  "Miladi  took 
your  daughter  to  a  ball  last  night,  and  returned 
about  three  in  the  morning.  Philippa  came 
to  my  room  to  tell  me  of  her  enjoyment,  and  I 
told  her  that  in  the  morning  she  must  sleep  late 
after  a  fatigue  so  great.  Also  I  unfastened  her 
dress,  for  she  had  forbid  Roper,  who  is  old,  to  sit 
up  for  her ;  and  she  knew  that  to  me  it  is  nothing 
to  be  disturbed.  At  seven  this  morning  I  rise 
and  go  to  seek  Roper,  that  she  may  not  disturb 
the  child;  and  I  meet  her  on  the  stairs,  crying, 
for  she  has  seen  the  servant  who  brought  the  letter 
from  Devonshire  for  Miladi,  and  he  has  told  her 
of  the  terrible  news.  I  still  forbid  that  the  child 
should  be  waked  to  hear  this." 

Catherine  put  out  her  hand  impulsively,  as 
though  to  thank  Mme.  Minart  for  this  thought  of 
Philippa,  but  the  Frenchwoman  did  not  pause 
in  her  rapid  low-toned  recital. 

"I  say  to  Roper,  'Let  her  sleep  as  long  as  she 
will;  it  will  be  time  enough  that  she  should 
know.  What  can  she  do?'  And  Roper  agree, 
but  say  I  am  not  to  tell  her,  she  will  tell  herself. 
What  would  you?  The  vulgar  find  a  certain  joy 
even  in  the  telling  of  bad  news,"  said  Mme. 
Minart  disdainfully.  "I  say  I  will  certainly 
not  tell  her,  and  I  go  to  seek  the  maid  of  Miladi. 
She  too  says  Miladi  will  know  soon  enough,  and 
will  let  her  sleep  on,  and  give  the  letter  only  when 


244  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

she  wakes,  since  there  is  nothing — no  more  to  be 
done  for  the  poor  gentleman.  And  since  Miladi  is  " 
— there  was  an  inflection  of  satire  in  Mme.  Min- 
art's  tones — "so  weak,  so  delicate,  that  she  will 
need  all  her  strength  in  a  grief  so  terrible.  At 
nine  o'clock  Holland  dares  no  longer  wait,  and 
she  goes  to  Miladi,  who  has,  as  was  to  be  expected, 
an  attack  of  the  nerves." 

"Of  the  heart,"  supplemented  Augusta  with  a 
sob. 

"Of  the  heart."  Mme.  Minart  accepted  the 
correction  without  a  change  of  expression.  "And 
Holland  is  obliged  to  call  for  assistance.  I  go,  and 
Roper,  and  others.  There  is  a  great  confusion. 
When  Roper  goes  upstairs  to  her  young  lady 
she  finds  that  she  has  already  risen  and  left  her 
room.  She  looks  for  her  downstairs  in  the  room 
where  we  breakfast,  and  finds  her  not,  and  some- 
one says  she  is  with  Miladi.  Later  we  find  that 
she  is  not  with  Miladi,  and  that  Miladi  has  not 
seen  her.  We  search  here  and  there ;  no  one  has 
seen  her,  no  one  has  told  her  the  news.  That  is 
all,"  said  Mme.  Minart. 

"What  did  you  do?" 

"What  could  we  do,"  said  Augusta,  weeping, 
"but  wait  for  her  to  come  back,  or  let  us  know 
where  she  had  gone?  I  made  up  my  mind  she 
had  heard  the  news  somehow  and  raced  off  to  you 
— it  would  be  just  like  her,  so  headstrong — and 
without  a  word  to  anybody.     It  never  occurred 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  245 

to  me  to  telegraph  and  ask  you.  I  waited  to  hear 
from  you.  And  then  it  turned  out  that  nobody 
could  have  told  her,  since  nobody  had  seen  her, 
so  I  grew  frightened  and  telegraphed  to  you.  It 
was  Pilkington  who  made  me  wire  a  second  time, 
for  he  had  wired  privately  himself  meantime  to 
the  station-master  at  Ilverton  and  learnt  that 
she  had  not  arrived  there."  As  she  spoke  the 
butler  brought  a  telegram  into  the  room,  and 
waited,  breathless  with  anxiety,  while  Cathe- 
rine tore  it  open,  heedless  to  whom  it  might  be 
addressed. 

It  was  from  Miss  Dulcinea. 

"Philippa  has  not  come  home.  Are  we  to 
expect  her?   Cannot  understand  your  wire." 

"I  took  the  liberty  of  telegraphing  myself  to 
Mrs.  Jones  at  the  Abbey,"  said  Pilkington  in 
subdued  tones  to  Catherine.  "Miss  Philippa  has 
not  arrived  there,  my  lady.  I  put  it  very  guarded, 
not  to  rouse  any  talk  like.  I  think,  my  lady,  no 
more  time  ought  to  be  lost,  if  you'll  excuse  me." 

"Of  course  no  more  time  ought  to  be  lost," 
said  Catherine,  trembling.  "Where  is  Colonel 
Moore?  Have  you  sent  to  him,  or  to  Mr.  Chilcott? 
And  Lady  Sarah?" 

"I  sent  round  to  her  ladyship's  house  the 
first  thing  this  morning.  Miss  Philippa  has  not 
been  to  Curzon  Street,  my  lady.  And  Colonel 
Moore  and  Squire  Chilcott  is  out  of  town,  just 
left  to  spend  the  week-end  at  Rait." 


246  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"Yes,  yes!  Colonel  Moore  said  last  night  that 
they  were  going — and  Grace  Trumoin  too.  So 
like  Blanche,  luring  all  my  friends  away  from  me! " 
sobbed  Augusta. 

"Saturday's  a  awkward  day  for  everything, 
my  lady,"  said  Pilkington,  "but  I  don't  think 
we  ought  to  lose  a  moment,  now  you've  come, 
in  going  to  Scotland  Yard.  They'll  telegraph 
her  description  all  down  the  line  to  Devonshire 
and  all  over  the  country.  It's  the  best  thing 
we  can  do." 

"Yes,  yes,  we  can  do  that.  It  is  something," 
said  Catherine,  "and  I  will  telegraph  to  Rait; 
they  will  come  back  when  they  hear.  Come  at 
once,  Pilkington." 

"Catherine,  you  must  rest — you  must  eat 
something,  or  you  will  be  ill  yourself,"  cried 
Augusta.  "7  am  as  ill  as  I  can  be.  I  feel  as  if  I 
should  go  out  of  my  mind  with  all  this  on  the 
top  of  what  has  happened." 

*"Do  you  think  I  shall  ever  rest  again,  day 
or  night,"  said  Catherine  fiercely,  "until  I  know 
my  child  is  safe?  Come,  Pilkington,  we  wiU  take 
Roper  with  us,  and  I  can  question  her  as  we  go." 
And  she  went  away  without  another  word  or 
look  to  spare  for  the  weeping  new-made  widow. 


CHAPTER  XV 

"What  am  I  to  do?  I  determined  I  would  come 
and  ask  you — for  Catherine  will  not  pay  the 
least  heed  to  what  I  say.  I  do  not  think  she  even 
hears  me.  She  never  went  to  bed  at  aU  last 
night.    She  will  be  out  of  her  mind  if  this  goes  on." 

"And  no  wonder,"  said  Lady  Sarah  grimly. 

"Of  course  I'm  not  fit  to  come  and  see  you. 
No  one  could  expect  it  of  me,"  sobbed  Augusta. 
"It's  not  decent  that  I  should  come  even  here, 
but  at  your  age  I  did  not  feel  justified  in  asking 
you  to  come  to  me.  Of  course,  if  this — this 
extraordinary  complication  had  not  happened,  I 
should  have  gone  down  at  once — at  once  to  the 
Abbey,  able  or  not  able,  as  every  one  would  have 
expected  of  me.  As  it  is  I  am  stunned,  simply 
stunned,  as  any  one  would  be  (and  every  one 
knows  what  we  were  to  each  other).  But  here 
am  I,  a  widow  only  a  day  old,  and  nobody  think- 
ing about  me  or  my  feeling  at  all.  Mr.  Ash  writing 
for  instructions,  when  I  don't  know  what  ought 
to  be  done  under  the  circumstances — and  if  Phi- 
lippa  doesn't  appear  at — at  the — oh,  how  can  I 
say  the  word?"  faltered  Augusta,  with  a  fresh 

247 


248  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

•burst  of  tears — "what  will  people  say?  Oh,  it  is 
dreadful  to  have  no  one — no  one  to  take  the 
responsibility  off  my  hands!" 

"Mr.  Ash  can  settle  all  details  about  the  fune- 
ral," said  Lady  Sarah,  without  faltering  at  all. 

There  were  no  traces  of  tears  about  her  shrunken 
yet  handsome  old  face,  but  the  waxen  purity  of 
her  complexion  was  paler,  and  there  was  a  curious 
ashen  greyness  about  her  sunken  mouth  and 
fine-cut  nostrils  that  told  of  the  shock  she  had 
suffered.  Grief  is  often  softened  mysteriously 
to  the  very  old,  who  have  outlived  the  loss  of 
many  loved  ones  and  have  grown  almost  accus- 
tomed to  the  chill  visitations  of  Death  stealing 
about  them  on  all  sides,  and  leaving  them  at 
last  alone  in  a  world  full  of  strangers  and 
memories. 

Lady  Sarah's  sardonic  humour  had  not  deserted 
her;  she  showed  little  more  sympathy  than  usual 
with  her  granddaughter-in-law,  and  would  have 
died  rather  than  relax  her  own  self-control  in 
Augusta's  presence. 

"Mr.  Ash  is  quite  a  young  man;  he  must  have 
some  one  to  direct  him.  I  couldn't  think  of  leav- 
ing it  to  him.  And  here  is  George  Chilcott,  poor 
Cecil's  oldest  friend  and  neighbour,  shocked 
as  he  is — as  he  must  be — yet  he  can  give  his 
attention  to  nothing  but  this  dreadful  business 
of  Philippa;  and  Colonel  Moore  is  the  same. 
They  came  down  with  Blanche  and  Bob  from 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  249 

Rait  this  morning.  And  the  police  in  and  out 
of  the  house;  even  I  am  being  questioned  and 
cross-examined  as  though  I  were  a  convict.  Cath- 
erine seems  to  suspect  every  one  in  turn  of  hav- 
ing made  away  with  her  daughter,  especially  Mme. 
Minart." 

"Pray,  who  is  Mme.  Minart?" 

"My  companion,  who " 

"Dear  me!  And  since  when  have  you  found  it 
necessary  to  start  a  companion?"  said  Lady 
Sarah,  raising  her  eyebrows  in  affected  surprise. 

"Oh,  grandmamma!  you  must  remember  I  told 
you  a  fortnight  ago  she  was  coming ;  and  here  she 
was  so  attached  to  Philippa,  poor  thing,  following 
her  about  from  morning  till  night,  and  never 
letting  her  out  of  her  sight.  No  one  can  say  I 
was  not  careful  of  Philippa.  I  was  afraid  of 
leaving  her  even  with  her  own  maid." 

' '  It  appears  to  me  that  she  was  rather  Philippa's 
companion  than  yours." 

"In  a  sense  she  was;  and  that  is  what  makes 
it  so  ridiculous  to  suspect  her.  She  is  absolutely 
devoted  to  Philippa,  and  how  could  she  have 
hidden  her  away  against  her  will?  The  thing  is 
absurd.  The  fact  is  Catherine  has  spoilt  her 
daughter  so,  that  Philippa  has  just  taken  it  into 
her  head  to  be  off  no  one  knows  where,  and 
then  they  all  come  down  upon  me.  One  would 
think  they  would  have  respected  my  first  day  of 
widowhood." 


250  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"You  are  responsible  for  Philippa,"  said  Lady 
Sarah  in  cutting  tones.  "She  cannot  have  van- 
ished into  thin  air.  She  must  have  gone  some- 
where out  of  your  house,  and  they  must  look  for 
the  clue  of  her  disappearance  there." 

"But  I  know  no  more  than  the  babe  unborn 
where  she  went,"  wailed  Augusta.  "All  I  can 
say  is  that  she  enjoyed  herself  at  the  dance,  and 
young  Kentisbury  paid  her  a  great  deal  of  atten- 
tion. It  was  my  suggestion  to  send  round  to 
their  house  and  tell  them  in  confidence." 

"  He  is  the  last  person  who  ought  to  have  heard 
anything  about  it,"  said  Lady  Sarah  sharply. 
"It  may  be  nothing  but  a  childish  freak.  She 
will  probably  turn  up  to-morrow,  and  then  he 
need  never  have  known.  A  girl's  reputation 
is  a  brittle  thing;  you  should  have  had  more 
sense." 

Poor  Augusta  looked  helplessly  at  her  grand- 
mother-in-law. 

"What  is  the  use  of  trying  to  hush  it  up  when 
it  is  sure  to  get  into  the  papers? "  she  said  tearfully. 
"And  Charlie  is  almost  frantic.  He  says  he  will 
never  rest  day  or  night  till  he  has  found  her. 
The  Scotland  Yard  people  thought  it  must  be  an 
elopement  at  first;  but  now  they  understand 
who  she  is  and  all  about  her,  they  think  it  is  more 
likely  a  blackmailing  business,  and  that  she  has 
been  abducted  against  her  will.  But  who  could 
have  abducted  a  strong  powerful  girl  like  Philippa 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  251 

against  her  will?  The  whole  thing  is  a  complete 
mystery." 

"Why  has  Catherine  not  been  here?"  said 
Lady  Sarah.     "Send  her  to  me." 

"She  was  out  all  night  with  Roper  and  Pilking- 
ton.  He  is  quite  knocked  up  to-day.  But  Cather- 
ine is  as  strong  as  a  horse;  she  always  was," 
said  Augusta  resentfully.  "And  all  to-day  she 
has  been  with  this  Detective  Mills,  questioning 
and  cross-questioning  every  servant  in  my  house, 
as  I  tell  you;  and  bullying  me  about  Mme. 
Minart's  references,  and  Philippa's  fondness  for 
her,  and  her  being  left  alone  with  her  every  even- 
ing, and  taking  meals  with  her.  One  would 
think  the  girl  had  been  utterly  neglected.  But 
I  have  told  Catherine  once  for  all  she  is  welcome 
to  take  charge  of  my  house  and  every  one  in  it 
— indeed  she  has  practically  done  so  without 
making  any  bones  about  it.  But,  Philippa  or  no 
Philippa,  I  go  down  to  Welwysbere  to-morrow, 
and  would  to-day  only  the  Sunday  trains  are  so 
impossible;  and  I  came  to  tell  you,  so  that 
every  one  should  know  I  have  your  approval. 
I  suppose  you  can't  disapprove  of  my  wishing  to 
go  to — to  my  poor — oh  dear,  oh  dear!" 

"The  sooner  you  go  the  better,"  said  Lady 
Sarah. 

"I  knew  you  would  think  so,"  said  Augusta, 
and  she  rose  with  some  alacrity  and  tottered  to 
Lady  Sarah's  side  to  take  her  leave. 


252  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"Let  me  know  the  instant  you  get  news." 

"I  will — I  will.  I'll  come  round  myself  before 
I  start  to-morrow  to  bid  you  good-bye — if  I  live," 
sobbed  Augusta  piously. 

"I  shall  not  expect  you  otherwise,"  said  Lady 
Sarah,  and  she  proffered  a  cold  cheek  to  Augusta's 
tearful  kiss. 

"How  profane  grandmamma  is  even  at  a  time 
like  this!"  murmured  poor  Lady  Adelstane  as  she 
groped  her  way  down  the  narrow  staircase  of  the 
little  house  in  Curzon  Street. 

"Augusta's  grief  seems  to  have  settled  in  her 
legs,"  said  Lady  Sarah,  viewing  in  a  dispassionate 
manner  from  the  drawing-room  window  Augusta's 
departure  and  the  tender  respect  with  which 
she  was  assisted  into  the  carriage  by  her  colossal 
footman.  "She  appears  tmable  to  walk  without 
help." 

"I  wish  you  would  come  and  lie  down  and 
rest  yourself,  my  lady,"  said  Tailer  very  anxiously ; 
for,  though  she  was  pretty  well  accustomed  to 
Lady  Sarah's  ways,  yet  she  thought  her  com- 
posure under  the  double  catastrophe  unnatural. 
"Let  me  bring  you  some  tea.  A  visit  like  that 
is  enough  to  upset  your  ladyship's  heart,  and  a 
cup  of  tea  would  do  you  good,  my  lady." 

"A  cup  of  tea  is  all  you  would  require  to  console 
you  for  my  demise,  Tailer,  I  am  weU  aware,"  said 
Lady  Sarah  sardonically.  "And  I  may  take 
this  opportunity  of  warning  you  that  the  less 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  263 

you  say  about  me  over  it  the  better.  For  if 
I  hear  you  telling  people  that  you  were  my  con- 
fidential friend,  or  any  nonsense  of  that  kind, 
you  may  depend  upon  it  I  shall  haxmt  you  in  the 
most  unpleasant  manner." 

"Oh,  my  lady,  what  dreadful  things  you  do 
say!  You  make  my  blood  run  cold,"  said  Tailer, 
horrified,  and  perhaps  also  a  little  conscience- 
stricken. 

"Leave  the  door  open  and  the  lamp  burning 
all  night  in  the  cottage,  and  do  not  stir  from  the 
house  for  a  moment.  Oh,  if  she  should  come 
home  and  find  nobody  waiting  to  welcome  her!" 
wrote  Catherine  in  a  hurried  tremulous  scrawl 
which  poor  Miss  Dulcinea,  blind  with  tears,  could 
hardly  read.  "There  has  been  a  clue.  They 
have  found  a  policeman  who  saw  a  tall  girl  in  a 
blue  dress  and  black  hat  walking  in  Belgrave 
Square  at  about  nine  o'clock  on  Saturday  morning. 
He  remembers  her  because  he  thought  of  warning 
her  not  to  carry  her  purse  so  openly  in  her  hand; 
but,  seeing  she  looked  very  strong  and  determined 
and  well  able  to  take  care  of  herself,  he  said 
nothing  after  all.  There  is  no  doubt  it  was  my 
darling,  for  her  plain  blue  serge  dress  and  her 
black  hat  are  missing  from  her  wardrobe.  She 
carried  no  bag  nor  parcel,  he  is  quite  certain 
of  that;  so,  wherever  she  went,  there  could  have 
been  nothing  premeditated.     She  did  not  look 


254  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

agitated  nor  upset  in  the  least,  so  she  cannot 
have  heard  the  dreadful  news  of  poor  Cecil's 
death.  He  says  he  is  certain  he  would  have 
observed  anything  unusual  about  her,  because 
he  took  particular  notice  of  her  being  such  a 
fine  healthy  upright  young  lady;  but  though  she 
passed  close  to  him  he  had  nothing  to  say  of  her 
beauty,  nor  did  he  remember  the  colour  of  her 
hair.  Where  she  was  going  we  cannot  tell.  Oh, 
dear  Aunt  Dulcinea,  you  can  do  nothing  but 
pray  for  her  and  watch  for  her,  and  as  you  love 
me,  never  leave  the  cottage  day  or  night  lest 
she  should  come." 

"David,  that  woman  knows.^* 

"What  woman?" 

"Mme.  Minart." 

"What  makes  you  think  so?" 

"That  is  just  it.  I  have  no  reason  that  I  can 
ask  you  or  George  or  any  one  else  to  listen  to," 
said  Catherine  almost  wildly.  "You  can  call  it 
instinct  if  you  like — a  woman's  instinct — or  a 
mother's.  But  directly  she  touched  me,  I  knew, 
when  she  put  me  into  the  chair  by  the  window 
last  night  and  I  felt  her  strong  hands  and  saw 
her  dark  clever  face  bending  over  me,  and  looking 
sorry — sorry  for  me — clever  people  can't  help 
being  sorry  for  their  victims,  you  know ;  it  is  only 
fools  who  don't  pity  and  who  think  of  nothing 
but  themselves.     It  flashed  across  me  then  that 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  255 

she  knew  where  Philippa  was,  and  that  it  was  her 
doing.  But  how  can  I  expect  you  or  George  to 
believe  me  when  I  have  no  better  reason  to  give 
you  than  that?  I  told  the  inspector  or  detective 
or  whoever  he  is,  Mr.  Mills,  directly  he  came." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Instinct  is  sometimes  a  surer  guide  than 
reason,"  said  David  soothingly. 

"Look  here,  Catherine,"  said  George  bluntly 
and  kindly,  "don't  go  worrying  about  any  one's 
opinion  of  the  strength  of  your  reasoning;  tell  us 
exactly  what  you  think.  No  one  else  knows  her 
so  well.  And  don't  stand  while  you're  talking. 
You  look  like  a  washed-out  rag;  knocking  your- 
self up  won't  do  any  good." 

Catherine  took  the  chair  he  pushed  forward, 
and  seated  herself  in  mechanical  obedience,  but 
she  never  moved  her  bright,  feverish  eyes  from 
David's  face.  It  was  in  his  wit  she  sought  for 
help;  she  trusted  George's  kindness,  but  had  no 
belief  in  his  intelligence. 

**I  know  this,"  she  said  solemnly,  "that  as  for 
an  elopement,  as  these  men  suggest — oh,  what 
do  they  not  suggest?" — said  Catherine  almost 
writhing,  "a — a  clandestine  love  affair  or  any- 
thing of  that  kind — it  is  not  in  Phil's  nature.  She 
would  never  be  persuaded — nobody  could  persuade 
her  to  do  a  thing  she  would  know  to  be  wrong  or 
improper.  In  some  ways  she  is  the  very  soul  of  con- 


256  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

scientiousness — of — of  conventionality.  But  this 
woman,  who  had  so  much  influence  over  her " 

"Mme.  Minart  had  influence  over  Philippa?  She 
had  scarcely  known  her  a  fortnight,"  said  David 
quickly. 

"When  one  is  young — a  fortnight — a  week — a, 
day — is  sometimes  an  age,"  said  Catherine; 
"I  have  known  a  girl  give  her  very  heart — let 
her  whole  life  be  changed — in  a  shorter  time  than 
that."  The  colour  of  her  white  face  never  varied, 
and  she  spoke  with  straightforward  simplicity, 
but  both  men  knew  that  she  was  thinking  of 
herself.  "From  the  letters  she  wrote  me  I  know 
that  Mme.  Minart  obtained  an  influence  over  her 
directly  after  she  came.  Philippa  was  too  guileless 
to  conceal  it,  even  if  she  had  wished.  She  had 
formed  a  friendship  for  Augusta,  but  I  read  be- 
tween the  lines  of  her  dear  letters  that  Augusta 
had  disillusioned  her,  as  was  inevitable,  and 
that  Mme.  Minart  had  consoled  her.  Poor  child ! 
At  her  age  one  must  idealise  some  one." 

"What  do  you  think  Mme.  Minart  has  done?" 

"I  believe  she  has  inspired  some  one  to  decoy 
my  Phil  away.  The  child  would  be  easily  imposed 
upon,  for  she  would  have  no  suspicions  of  any  one. 
And  it  must  be  for  money  |  it  could  not  be  for 
anything  else.  If  it  were  not  for  the  certainty 
I  feel  of  this  I  should  go  mad,"  said  Catherine 
with  dry  eyes  and  calm  voice.  "But  it  could  not 
be  to  any  one's  interest  to  harm  my  darling,  even 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  257 

if  a  woman  whom  Philippa  in  her  innocence  loved 
and  believed  in  could  have  the  heart  to  betray 
her  to — anything  bad.  It  could  not.  She  is  being 
hidden  away  in  the  hopes  of  a  reward." 

"It  seems  the  most  probable  explanation," 
said  David. 

"Can't  the  woman  be  arrested  on  suspicion?" 
said  George  angrily. 

"Mr.  Mills  says  she  has  given  them  no  excuse 
whatever  for  arresting  her." 

"She  is  a  stranger  and  a  foreigner.  Isn't  that 
excuse  enough?"  growled  George. 

Catherine  smiled  wearily. 

"He  also  thinks  in  our  own  interests  it  is  better 
not.  She  gave  them  every  information  they 
asked  concerning  her  last  interview  with  Philippa, 
and  never  faltered  nor  contradicted  herself.  And 
she  said  that  as  she  considered  herself  in  charge 
of  Philippa  she  courted  the  fullest  inquiry;  and 
gave  them  the  addresses  of  her  last  employers, 
and  of  her  friend  at  the  registry  office,  and  begged 
them  to  search  her  room  or  her  papers  or  do  any- 
thing they  chose.  He  warned  her  that  she  would 
be  arrested  if  she  made  the  slightest  attempt 
to  leave  the  house." 

"Just  to  put  her  on  her  guard,  I  suppose," 
said  George. 

"Perhaps  he  only  said  it  to  frighten  her.  He 
is  having  her  watched." 

"Suppose  we  ask  to  see    her,"   said  George. 

17 


258  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

**It  might  be  the  simplest  plan,  since  she  knows 
she  is  suspected.  We  could  threaten  her  with  the 
law,  and  give  her  a  chance  of  escaping  punish- 
ment by  an  immediate  confession." 

Catherine  shook  her  head. 

"It  will  be  of  no  use." 

"How  do  you  know  that?"  said  David  quickly. 

"Because  I  went  on  my  knees  to  her  this 
morning,"  said  Catherine,  in  the  same  passionless 
even  tones.  '  *  If  tears  would  have  melted  a  stone 
they  would  have  melted  her  heart;  but  they  did 
not.  I  went  into  her  room  where  she  lay  asleep 
— in  the  dawn — and  I  woke  her,  and  I  prayed 
her  to  tell  me,  and  she  answered  that  I  was  mad 
with  grief,  and  pretended  to  be  full  of  concern 
and  pity;  but  it  was  no  longer  the  real  pity  that 
I  saw  in  her  face  that  first  night.  She  has  hard- 
ened her  heart." 

David  looked  at  Catherine  pitifully.  Her 
gentle  face  was  pinched  and  colourless,  grown 
old  in  a  single  night  with  misery;  her  hazel  eyes 
were  unnaturally  large,  and  though  her  manner 
was  calm,  it  was  only  by  an  intense  effort  of  self- 
control  that  that  calm  was  sustained. 

Under  his  look  of  compassion  her  lip  quivered 
suddenly. 

"Help  me  to  find  her,"  she  said,  and  put  a  soft, 
cold  hand  into  his  strong  fingers. 

"I'm  going  to,"  he  said  briefly.  "Now  you've 
given  me  full  authority  to  act  for  you.     But  I 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  259 

like  my  information  first-hand.  I  should  like  to 
see  Mme.  Minart  myself." 

"Yes." 

"Mr.  Mills  has  given  me  the  facts  as  he  has 
collected  them,  let  me  collect  my  own." 

"Very  well,  send  for  whom  you  choose.  If  I 
go  out  meanwhile,"  said  Catherine,  "will  you 
not  leave  the  house  till  I  return?" 

"I  will  not." 

"Then  I  will  go  and  see  if  Lady  Sarah  knows 
anything.  She  is  very  clever,"  said  Catherine, 
"but  I  shall  be  very  quickly  back." 

A  polite  message  was  sent  to  Mme.  Minart, 
and  she  presently  came  very  quietly  into  the 
room,  bowed  to  both  gentlemen,  and  accepted 
the  chair  that  David  offered. 

"Am  I  again  to  be  cross-examined?"  she  said 
with  a  faint  smile. 

"If  you  please,"  said  David  very  courteously, 
"but  of  course  you  will  understand  that  we  have 
no  authority  whatever  to  ask  you  questions. 
I  am  venturing  to  assume,"  he  looked  keenly  at 
her,  "that  you  are  as  anxious  as  we  are  ourselves 
that  this  matter  should  be  cleared  up,  and  the 
young  lady  found.  We  are  sure  you  wish  her  no 
harm." 

"You  do  me  justice,  and  you  are  the  first  to  do 
so,"  said  Mme.  Minart  in  a  voice  of  emotion,  and 
her  dark,  liquid  eyes  met  his  gaze.  "Will  you  be- 
lieve me.  Monsieur  le  Colonel,  if  I  tell  you  that 


260  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

I  love  this  child  with  all  my  heart,  though  I  have 
known  her  so  short  a  time;  that  I  have  never 
had  any  pupil  to  show  me  so  much  love,  so  much 
candour,  so  much  generosity?" 

"Indeed  I  believe  you,"  said  David  warmly, 
for  the  ring  of  sincerity  in  her  beautiful  voice 
was  unmistakable.    He  held  out  his  hand  to  her. 

"I  thank  you.  Monsieur.  You  are  not  then 
of  those  who  would  doubt  me,  like  these  stu- 
pid police,  only  because  I  am  a  stranger  and  a 
foreigner?" 

George  pulled  his  moustache  and  knew  not 
where  to  look. 

"Hang it  all,"  he  thought  uneasily,  "one  would 
suppose  she  had  been  listening." 

But  Mme.  Minart  was  not  of  those  who  need 
to  listen.  A  glance  at  the  rubicund  good-natured 
countenance  of  George,  now  darkened  by  his 
openly  suspicious  and  hostile  expression,  enabled 
her  to  divine  his  sentiments. 

She  instantly  ignored  him,  and  appealed  only  to 
David's  finer  intelligence  and  quicker  sympathies. 

"I  have  written  down,"  she  said  simply,  "the 
exact  facts — the  hours — all  I  can  remember  of 
my  conversation  with  Philippa — to  help  the  poUce. 
Here  it  is." 

She  handed  some  notes  across  the  table,  in- 
scribed in  a  minute  exquisite  French  hand. 

He  read  them  carefully.  "Thank  you.  Was 
Philippa  in  good  spirits?" 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  261 

"More  than  good  spirits — excited,  delighted 
with  the  triumph  of  her  debut." 

"You  went  into  her  room?" 

"As  you  will  see  written.  I  assisted  her  to 
bed.  She  said  she  was  too  sleepy  to  plait  her  hair 
as  usual.  I  promised  that  she  should  not  be 
caUed  until  ten  o'clock  unless  she  rang." 

"Did  she  not  ring  on  Saturday  morning?" 

"The  servants  say  not." 

"What  was  the  exact  hour  that  her  absence 
was  discovered  ? ' ' 

"Between  nine-thirty  and  ten  Roper  knocked 
at  her  door  and  found  her  room  empty." 

"But  the  policeman  saw  her  out  of  doors  soon 
after  nine.  So  she  must  have  left  her  room  before 
nine." 

"Obviously." 

"Did  no  one  see  her  go  downstairs?" 

"They  say  not." 

"You  say  that  Lady  Adelstane  was,  very 
naturally,  overcome  by  the  news  which  was  taken 
to  her  at  nine  o'clock?" 

"Lady  Adelstane  had  an  attack,"  said  Mme. 
Minart,  in  brief,  expressive  tones;  "to  you  I 
speak  frankly — she  had  hysterics.  The  house 
was  roused." 

"Who  went  to  her?" 

"Her  maid  was  with  her,  and  Mrs.  Joliffe  the 
housekeeper,  but  she  was  of  no  use — ^weeping 
and  crying.     Holland  sent  for  Roper;   she  would 


262  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

not  send  for  me,  because  she  was  jealous,  but  I 
went.     The  head-housemaid  answered  the  bell, 
and  the  doctor  was  sent  for." 
.    "Who  went  for  the  doctor?" 

"No  one  went — the  butler  telephoned." 

"Who  went  down  to  tell  the  butler?" 

"The  housemaid." 

"What  was  Roper  doing?" 

Mme.  Minart  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Rubbing  Miladi's  hands,  holding  the  salts 
to  her  nose;  bathing  her  head.  The  two  maids 
held  together.  They  would  not  let  me  help.  I 
made  suggestions  and  opened  the  windows." 

"Who  remained  in  the  room  when  the  doctor 
came?" 

* '  Holland  and  Roper.  I  remained  in  the  dress- 
ing-room with  Mrs.  Joliffe." 

"That  was  at  ten  o'clock?" 

"He  was  gone  before  ten  o'clock." 

"And  then  Roper  went  upstairs  to  her  young 
lady?" 

"She  went  downstairs  first  to  fetch  her  young 
lady's  cup  of  tea,  and  then  up  to  her  room." 

"Did  you  not  think  it  strange  Philippa  should 
hear  none  of  this  commotion?" 

"No;  Philippa's  room  is  on  the  floor  above, 
and  not  over  or  anywhere  near  Miladi's  room. 
It  is  shut  off  by  a  baize  door  from  the  front  part 
of  the  house." 

* '  Where  is  your  room  ? " 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  263 

"Down  the  same  passage." 

"And  Roper's?" 

"Further  down  the  same  passage." 

"When  Roper  found  Philippa's  room  empty 
what  did  she  do?" 

"She  went  to  the  breakfast-room,  and,  finding 
no  one  there,  supposed  Philippa  had  gone  to 
Miladi  while  she  was  fetching  the  tea.  She  waited 
an  hour  outside  Miladi 's  room  till  Holland  came 
out,  not  daring  to  knock  because  the  doctor  had 
given  a  composing  draught.  Then  she  learnt  that 
Philippa  had  not  been  near  Miladi  and  then  she 
came  to  me.  I  was  having  my  breakfast  in  the 
morning-room  as  usual." 

"Had  you  not  been  anxious  to  know  how 
Philippa  would  take  the  news  of  her  cousin's 
death?" 

"I  had  promised  to  leave  her  old  nurse  to  tell 
her,  and  withdrawn  myself  from  the  affair.  I 
thought  she  would  come  to  me.  When  it  became 
evident  she  was  not  in  the  house,  we  thought 
she  had  heard  the  news  and  gone  out  to  telegraph 
to  her  mother.  At  twelve  Miladi  sent  for  her, 
and  we  were  obliged  to  say  she  could  not  be 
found.  Miladi  thought  she  had  heard  the  news 
and  gone  home,  and  was  very  angry.  But  Pilking- 
ton  sent  a  telegram  to  the  station-master  at  Ilver- 
ton  to  know  if  Philippa  had  arrived,  and  the  reply 
came  that  she  had  not.  Miladi  grew  frightened 
and  telegraphed  to  Lady  Adelstane  to  come." 


264  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"Thank  you  very  much.  And  now  tell  us," 
said  David  very  simply,  "what  do  you  think?" 

"I?"  said  Mme.  Minart,  and  a  sudden  colour 
flushed  her  olive  cheeks. 

"I  beheve  you  could  help  us  better  than  any 
one,  for  you  have  been  Philippa's  friend  and  con- 
fidante during  these  past  days  that  she  has  been 
away  from  her  mother's  care.  If  there  was  any- 
thing on  her  mind,  you  would  know  it." 

"Was  she  in  any  scrape?"  said  George  bluntly. 

Mme.  Minart  scarcely  deigned  to  glance  at  him. 

"Certainly  not,"  she  said  in  disdain. 

"Was  she — "  David  hesitated  and  coloured 
all  over  his  bronzed  face,  the  more  deeply  because 
he  was  aware  that  Mme.  Minart  was  observing 
him.  "Had  you  any  reason  to  think  that  she 
was — or  fancied  herself — in  love?" 

"Ah,  Monsieur,"  said  Mme.  Minart  gently, 
would  you  have  me  betray  a  young  girl's  secret 
if  that  was  so?" 

"Nonsense,  she's  scarcely  more  than  a  child, 
and  in  any  case  her  secret  would  be  safe  enough 
with  us,"  said  George.  "Then  there  is  something 
of  that  kind?" 

"She  has  not  told  me  so,"  said  Mme.  Minart 
coldly. 

David  came  to  her  side,  and  took  her  hand 
in  his  impulsive  fashion. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  "we  are  asking  you  to 
trust  us.    This  child  is  very  dear  to  both,  for  her 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  265 

own  sake,  and  her  mother's.  Do  not,  out  of 
mistaken  kindness,  endeavour  to  keep  back 
anything." 

"That  is  the  only  motive  you  would  attribute 
to  me,  Monsieur?"  said  Mme.  Minart  emotionally. 

"I  would  not  insult  you — after  the  appeal  you 
have  made  to  us,  your  voluntary  declaration  of 
your  affection  for  her — by  supposing  that  any 
other  motive  save  kindness  to  her,  or  to  us, 
would  influence  you  to  keep  back  information 
which  might  help  us  to  find  her,"  he  said  warmly. 

Mme.  Minart  looked  up  into  the  kind,  frank, 
manly  face  with  a  very  agitated  smile,  and  a 
tear  in  her  dark  eyes. 

"Ah,  Monsieur,"  she  said,  "you  would  never 
appeal  in  vain,  believe  me,  to  a  woman.  It  is  true 
that  the  child  is  in  love;  but  it  is  also  true  that 
she  has  not  told  me  so,  for  a  very  simple  reason." 

"And  that  is " 

"That  she  does  not  know  it  herself." 

"Then  it  is  mere  conjecture  on  your  part?" 
said  George  roughly. 

"If  you  like  to  put  it  in  that  way,  yes,  Mon- 
sieur," she  retorted.  "And  for  that  reason  I  do 
not  choose  to  reveal  the  name  of  him  to  whom 
I  believe  this  young  girl,  in  all  innocence,  has 
given  her  heart." 

"Then  I  don't  see  the  use  of  your  having  told 
us  the  fact,"  said  George  sulkily. 

"It  is  of  no  use,  for  it  can  have  nothing  to  do 


266  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

with  her  disappearance,  since  he  also  is  of  those 
who  search,"  she  said  patiently.  "M.  le  Colonel, 
however,  asked  me  the  question." 
■  "And  I  thank  you  for  answering  it,"  said 
David.  "But,  as  Mr.  Chilcott  says,  it  is  not 
material  if  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  her  disap- 
pearance, and  you  think  it  has  not?" 

"I  am  sure  it  has  not." 

"Then  what  do  you  think?"  he  asked,  fixing 
his  eyes  entreatingly  on  her  face. 

"Ah,  mon  Dieu,  Monsieur,"  said  Mme  Minart 
in  agitated  tones,  "you  torture  me  when  you 
question  me  thus.  Do  you  think  I  would  not  help 
you  if  I  could?"  Her  voice  was  low,  almost 
tender,  her  dark  eyes  eloquent  with  reproach. 
"Myself,  I  have  the  conviction,  like  Miladi,  that 
she  wiU  return  safe  and  sound.  She  is  full  of 
romance.  Who  can  tell  where  she  may  have  been 
pleased  to  go?  Comfort  yourself  to  think  she  is 
strong  and  healthy,  and  that  she  had  a  purse  full  of 
money,  and  is  well  able  to  take  care  of  herself." 

"No  girl  of  that  age  can  take  care  of  herself," 
said  George  sternly. 

This  was  the  end  of  their  questioning  of  Mme. 
Minart,  and  they  felt  they  had  gained  nothing 
from  the  interview,  which  had  the  effect,  however, 
of  dispersing  David's  suspicions  of  the  compan- 
ion; and  the  more  especially  when  the  tearful 
Roper,  though  evidently  detesting  her,  corrobo- 
rated her  story  in  every  detail. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  267 

"She  knows  nothing,"  said  David  to  George. 

"I  am  not  so  sure,"  said  George. 

"My  dear  fellow,  you  mistrust  her,  as  she  says, 
merely  because  she  is  a  stranger  and  a  foreigner." 

"Perhaps.  Anyway,  I  don't  believe  a  word 
she  says,"  he  replied  very  bluntly. 

"You  think  Catherine's  suspicions  are  justified 
then?" 

"I  don't  know  what  to  think.  The  only  sure 
thing  is  that  Philippa  has  disappeared,  and  it's 
either  that  she's  gone  off  for  a  lark,  which  doesn't 
seem  the  least  like  her,  or  that  she's  been  decoyed 
away  for  blackmailing  purposes  by  some  one 
who  had  heard  of  poor  Adelstane's  death  and 
knew  she  was  his  heiress." 

"Aye,  that's  just  it,"  interposed  David,  "that 
practically  exonerates  Mme.  Minart.  How  in 
the  name  of  fortune  could  she  have  made  up  a 
plot  to  get  Philippa  decoyed  away,  which  would 
necessarily  mean  employing  an  accompHce,  within 
a  couple  of  hours  of  the  first  possible  moment 
she  could  have  learnt  of  poor  Adelstane's  fate?" 

George  shook  his  head. 

"Perhaps  we  are  all  wrong  in  mixing  up  this 
sad  event  with  Philippa's  disappearance.  She 
may  simply  have  gone  out  to  buy  something; 
lost  her  way  and  strayed  into  some  unfrequented 
street — God  knows  what  may  have  happened 
to  her  in  that  case." 

"Do  not  put  that  into  Catherine's  head,"  said 


268  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

David   hastily.      "No   doubt   that   is   what   the 
poHce  fear.     Of  course  there  is  just  the  chance, 

though " 

"WeU " 


"Mme.  Minart  believes  her  to  be  in  love;  of 
course  it's  with  this  young  ass,  Kentisbury,  who 
made  a  conspicuous  fool  of  himself  at  the  Lundys' 
dance,  following  her  about,"  said  David  rather 
savagely.  "She  may  have  taken  fright — at  him, 
or  herself,  or  something — girls  are  very  fanciful, 
you  know,  and  be  hiding  herself.  It  doesn't 
sound  probable,  but  it's  possible." 

"It's  not  at  all  Hke  PhiHppa.  She  is  a  thor- 
oughly healthy,  sensible  girl,  not  a  mysterious 
idiot,"  said  George  stoutly.  "And  I  don't  believe 
Mme.  Minart  knows  her  half  so  well  as  she  pre- 
tends to.  Phil  is  a  bit  spoilt  and  obstinate,  but 
she's  a  well-bred  'im,  not  the  least  likely  to  give 
herself  away  if  she  was  in  love  a  dozen  times 
over,  with  Kentisbury  or  any  other  young  fool." 

"I  had  almost  rather  it  was  with  any  other 
young  fool;  the  fellow  looks  such  a  confoimded 
noodle,"  said  David  gloomily. 

Catherine  knelt  by  Lady  Sarah's  chair,  and 
hid  her  face  upon  the  flowered  hlac  satin  sleeves 
of  Lady  Sarah's  gown. 

For  the  first  time  since  the  blow  had  fallen 
she  foimd  a  moment's  comfort  in  human  sym- 
pathy. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  269 

"My  poor  child — my  darling  Catherine,"  mur- 
mured the  old  woman  in  a  broken  voice  hardly 
recognisable  as  her  own;  and  the  rare  painful 
tears  of  age  dropped  slowly,  one  by  one,  on  to  the 
bent  head,  where  threads  of  silver  shone  among 
the  soft  brown  hair. 

"And  it  is  I  who  should  be  comforting  you — 
who  have  lost  your — your  last  child,"  Catherine 
sobbed.  "I  feel  so  disloyal, so  heartless, when  I 
think  of  him;  and  yet — this  other  trouble  has 
swallowed  up  everything." 

"It  is  Philippa  who  is  my  last  child  now," 
said  Lady  Sarah.  "Do  not  give  way,  my  darling. 
It  is  the  living  of  whom  we  must  think,  not  the 
dead.  His  hopes,  like  ours,  were  bound  up  in 
her." 

The  hand  which  rested  on  Catherine's  soft 
hair  trembled  slightly.  She  thought  remorse- 
fully that  it  was  she  who  had  advised  Catherine 
to  part  with  her  child;  and  that  Catherine  had 
not  uttered  a  single  reproach,  nor  reminded  her 
of  the  fact  which  Lady  Sarah  could  not  forget. 

"You  know  that  Augusta  has  been  here?  She 
is  going  to  the  Abbey  with  you  to-morrow,"  she 
says. 

"But  I  am  not  going  to  stay,"  said  Catherine. 
"I  shall  get  there  in  time  for — for  the  inquest. 
But  directly  that  is  over — oh,  how  dreadful,  how 
dreadful  it  all  is !  — David  says  I  shall  be  able 
to  come  straight  back.    I  need  not  stay  the  night. 


270  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

I  could  not.  And  besides — the  Raits  are  going  to 
stay  with  her.  She  says  she  does  not  want  them, 
but  it  is  better  they  should  go,  and  Grace  Trumoin 
wiU  go  too.  The  Raits  have  been  very  kind. 
They  have  placed  a  motor  at  David's  disposal. 
They  say  we  shall  have  more  clues  by  the  time 
I  return,  to  follow  up." 

"Catherine,  save  your  strength  for  to-morrow, 
and  rest  to-night." 

"How  can  I  rest,  and  my  darling  perhaps — " 
she  gave  a  little  cry  and  shudder.  "I  dare  not 
think.  I  must  not  stay  with  you  even  now.  But 
I  felt  you  had  been  neglected,  and  I  hoped  you 
might  have  some  idea — some  suggestion."  She 
uttered  a  little  mirthless  laugh  that  went  to 
Lady  Sarah's  heart.  "But  perhaps  you  are  too 
wise  to  offer  suggestions  that  almost  drive  one 
mad  with  their  unlikelihood.  The  detective, 
Mr.  Mills,  has  been  questioning  and  questioning 
till  I  am  almost  mad.  And  then  one  must  go 
through  it  all  again  with  somebody  else.  He 
asked  me  if  she  had  been  happy  at  home.  My 
little  Phil,  my  baby,  for  whom  I  would  lay  down 
my  life;  was  she  happy  with  me?"  She  looked 
calmly  and  with  inexpressible  sadness  at  Lady 
Sarah.  "And  the  dreadful  part  is  this — that 
I  could  not  honestly  say  yes,"  said  Catherine. 

"Hush,  my  darling,  hush!  you  little  foolish 
creature,"  said  Lady  Sarah,  to  whom  Catherine, 
even  yet  seemed  almost  a  child  herself.      "She 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  271 

was  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long.  She  had 
everything  to  make  her  happy." 

"She  did  not  think  so,"  said  Catherine  with  a 
wan  smile.  "That  is  the  sad,  funny  thing,  you 
know.  It  wasn't  our  love,  nor  our  care  and 
petting  she  wanted,  but  something  new,  some- 
thing different." 

"Girls  are  full  of  fancies  and  ingratitude,  and 
senselessness,"  said  Lady  Sarah  angrily.  "You 
are  a  fool,  my  love,  to  dwell  upon  such  nonsense." 

"Girls  are  full  of  fancies — yes,  that  is  what 
Mr.  Mills  said,"  said  Catherine  wearily,  and  she 
leaned  her  head  on  her  hand,  and  thought  of  the 
questions  she  had  been  asked,  and  which  she  had 
resented,  in  the  midst  of  her  anxiety  to  afford 
every  possible  help,  every  imaginable  clue,  to 
the  questioner. 

"Happy?  How  can  I  say?  I've  thought  of 
nothing  but  her  happiness  from  morning  till 
night.  What  has  that  to  do  with  her  disappear- 
ance? She  has  been  decoyed  away,"  she  had 
said. 

"Madam,  in  our  experience  it  has  a  good  deal 
to  do  with  girls  of  that  age  leaving  their  homes," 
the  inspector  had  answered  bluntly.  "At  fifteen 
or  sixteen  they  often  get,  if  you'll  excuse  me, 
ma'am,  discontented  with  everything,  no  matter 
what's  done  for  them;  fancying  no  one  under- 
stands them,  or  working  themselves  up  so  that 
you'd   almost   begin   to   believe   they   were    ill- 


272  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

treated,  though  you  know  to  the  contrary." 
Then  he  had  been  touched  by  Catherine's  distress 
and  had  begged  her  pardon.  "You  U  excuse  my 
plain  speaking,  ma'am,  but  I've  daughters  of  my 
own,"  he  said  compassionately.  "Dealing  with 
some  girls  of  that  age  is  like  treading  on  eggs.  And 
it  stands  to  reason  that  a  yoimg  lady  accustomed 
to  indulge  every  whim " 

"She  was  not,"  cried  Catherine. 

But  the  inspector  had  heard  a  very  different 
story  from  Augusta,  who,  being  in  an  excessively 
injured  frame  of  mind,  and  feeling  that,  at  least, 
she  could  not  be  held  responsible  for  the  dispo- 
sition of  Catherine's  daughter,  had  vented  her 
indignation  against  Philippa  by  roundly  declaring 
her  to  be  the  most  ungrateful,  pig-headed,  wilful, 
sullen-tempered  girl  in  the  world,  who  cared  for 
nothing  but  having  her  own  way,  and  who  thought 
of  nobody  but  herself  from  morning  till  night. 

But  Catherine  was  fortunately  all  unaware  of 
the  character  which  Augusta  had  drawn  of  her 
young  cousin  and  guest. 

Lady  Sarah  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"It  is  all  a  mystery  to  me,"  she  said.  "I  saw 
next  to  nothing  of  Philippa — ^Augusta  took  care 
of  that." 

**The  description  of  my  darling  will  be  in 
every  newspaper  in  England  to-morrow,"  said 
Catherine.  "I  wrote  it  for  them.  They  said 
there  was  no  hope  of  avoiding  publicity,  and 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  273 

that  indeed  publicity  gives  us  the  best  chance  of 
finding  her  quickly." 

She  started  nervously  to  her  feet. 

"I  must  go.  I  feel  every  moment  something 
may  be  happening,  and  I  not  there  to  help." 

"Don't  forget  me,"  said  Lady  Sarah  patheti- 
cally. "Spare  me  a  few  moments  when  you 
can.  I  am  very  old  and  helpless  and  lonely, 
Catherine,  sitting  here  by  myself." 

Even  in  the  midst  of  her  heart-sickening 
anxiety  Catherine  could  not  but  realise  how 
shaken  the  old  woman's  nerves  must  be,  before 
Lady  Sarah — stem,  ironical,  and  self-controlled 
through  all  her  past  sorrows — could  make  such 
an  appeal. 


tt 


CHAPTER  XVI 

"I  MUST  write  to  Catherine  at  once,"  said  Mrs. 
Chilcott,  who  was  ever  ready  to  condole  with 
her  relatives  on  their  misfortunes,  though  she 
was  invariably  dumb  concerning  their  successes. 

She  mistook  the  eagerness  with  which  she 
proceeded  to  indite  a  letter  to  Catherine  for  the 
haste  of  charity;  and,  though  it  was  impossible 
not  to  be  shocked  at  the  double  disaster  which 
had  befallen  the  house  of  Adelstane,  yet  Mrs. 
Chilcott — ^who  had  always  been  jealous  of  the 
promotion  by  marriage  into  that  house  of  her 
humble  niece  Catherine — ^was  not  destitute  of 
that  secret  sense  of  triumph  in  another's  trouble 
which  is  perhaps  among  the  most  evil  of  all  sen- 
sations to  which  poor  human  nature  is  prone. 

She  was,  besides,  just  sufficiently  pious  to  feel 
convinced  that  other  people's  trials  were  always 
sent  for  the  best  by  a  discerning  Providence 

"What  could  Catherine  expect,  letting  a  country 
hoyden  go  alone  to  that  fast  worldly  woman's 
house,  with  no  one  to  look  after  her?"  she  said  to 
her  daughter. 

"There  was  Roper,"  said  Clara,  whose  eyes 
274 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  275 

were  swollen  with  honest  grief  for  the  untimely- 
death  of  Sir  Cecil  Adelstane,  and  for  the  unac- 
countable disappearance  of  her  cousin  Philippa. 

"Roper,  a  half-witted  drudge  whom  Catherine 
chose  to  pick  out  of  my  own  laimdry  for  her 
daughter's  nurse,"  said  Mrs.  Chilcott  sarcastically. 

"She  is  a  very  honest,  good  steady  woman, 
mamma." 

"I  am  perfectly  aware  what  Roper  is  like," 
said  Mrs.  Chilcott  sharply,  "and  a  more  unsuit- 
able, ignorant  maid  for  Philippa  could  not  have 
been  found." 

"Where  do  you  think  poor  Philippa  can  be?" 
said  Clara  in  awe-struck  tones. 

"Who  can  tell?  Either  she  has  eloped  with  a 
footman  or  a  chauffeur — going  about  in  Lord 
Kentisbury's  motor,  indeed,  at  her  age! — or  else, 
roaming  alone  in  the  streets  of  London  before 
breakfast,  as  it  appears  she  was  permitted  to  do 
she  has  been  robbed  and  murdered." 

"Oh,  mamma!"  screamed  Clara,  and  she  lost 
every  vestige  of  colour.  "Do  not  say  so — poor 
little  Philippa,  and  oh,  poor — poor  Catherine!" 

A  tear  rolled  down  Clara's  large  face ;  for  though 
she  was  not  a  very  intelligent  person  she  had  a 
heart,  and  was  sincere  and  even  kind  in  her  way. 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Clara.  For  my  part  I  am  not 
going  to  pretend  to  be  fond  of  a  girl  who  was 
deliberately  kept  away  from  her  own  relations, 
and  taught  to  look  down  on  them,"  said  Mrs. 


276  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

Chilcott  angrily.  "I  am  quite  as  shocked  and 
sorry  as  you  can  possibly  be;  more  so,  for  I  am 
able  to  realise  her  fate  a  great  deal  better  than 
you  can,  who  know  nothing  whatever  of  the 
wickedness  of  the  world;  but  I  am  not  going  to 
pretend  to  be  surprised.  I  always  knew  that  no 
good  could  possibly  come  of  the  absurd  way 
Catherine  was  bringing  her  up.  The  pride  that 
apes  humility  indeed!  Living  in  a  labourer's 
cottage  when  every  one  knew  she  must  inherit 
the  Abbey.  Though  it  would  have  been  hard  to 
find  any  one  more  unsuited  for  such  a  position." 

"Mamma,  if  poor  Philippa  is  never  foimd,  who 
will  it  all  go  to?"  said  Clara  solemnly. 

"After  a  certain  lapse  of  time,  to  a  distant 
cousin,"  said  Mrs.  Chilcott,  who  knew  no  more 
of  the  matter  than  her  daughter,  but  who  would 
have  invented  a  dozen  answers  rather  than  admit 
ignorance  on  any  conceivable  subject.  "When 
one  thinks  how  terribly  poor  Sir  Cecil  would  have 
felt  all  this  horrible  publicity  and  scandal,  and 
these  dreadful  newspaper  advertisements,  one 
almost  feels  his  removal  from  it  all  like  a  special 
Providence." 

Clara,  who  had  not  hitherto  regarded  Sir 
Cecil's  fatal  accident  in  this  light,  moumfuUy 
accepted  her  mother's  view  in  good  faith. 

"It  is  well,  indeed,  that  he  should  be  spared 
it  all,"  she  said,  wiping  her  eyes. 

"There  is  one  thing  I  insist  on,"  said  Mrs. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  277 

Chilcott,  "and  that  is,  that  you  go  at  once  and 
fetch  Lily  home.  She  was  entrusted  to  Cath- 
erine, and  Catherine  has  chosen  to  leave  her. 
1  won't  have  her  left  with  Aunt  Dulcinea,  half 
crazy  as  she  has  always  been,  and  totally  unsuited 
to  look  after  herself  or  any  one  else.  I  should 
hope  even  George  will  acknowledge  now  that 
Catherine  has  proved  herself  sufficiently  unfit 
to  have  charge  of  a  child." 

Clara  was  nothing  loth  to  undertake  the  task 
of  fetching  her  niece  home.  She  was  sincerely 
attached  to  Lily,  and  very  sore  at  her  brother's 
ingratitude  for  her  own  praiseworthy  efforts  to 
undertake  his  daughter's  education. 

"Of  course  she  is  an  unusually  naughty  child," 
thought  poor  Clara ;  * '  but  I  make  every  excuse  for 
her  when  I  recollect  what  a  faulty  disposition 
she  must  have  inherited,  as  mamma  truly  says, 
from  poor  Delia.  Sometimes  she  behaves  like 
a  demon,  and  George  gives  one  no  credit  for 
putting  up  with  it.  But  I  try  to  remember 
he  is  a  widower,  and  make  allowance  for  his 
weakness." 

She  told  her  mother  of  her  fears  that  it  would 
not  be  easy  to  bring  Lily  away  from  Shepherd's 
Rest  against  her  will;  since  the  child's  innate 
wickedness  made  it  probable  that  she  would 
not  wish  to  return  to  her  lawful  guardians. 

"And  it  will  hurt  Aunt  Dulcinea's  feelings,  I 
know,  when  I  explain  to  her  as  I  must,"  said  the 


278  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

conscientious  Clara,  "that  I  do  not  think  her  at 
all  a  fit  person  to  have  charge  of  Lily." 

"I  never  mind  what  I  say  to  people  for  their 
good,  and  why  should  you?"  said  Mrs.  Chilcott 
sternly.  "A  little  plain  speaking  will  do  Aunt 
Dulcinea  no  harm,  and  she  only  keeps  away  from 
me  because  she  is  afraid  of  getting  it." 

On  the  afternoon  following  this  conversation, 
Miss  Clara  ordered  the  victoria,  and  drove  up  to 
Shepherd's  Rest. 

The  coachman  would  have  grumbled  indig- 
nantly at  any  other  time,  upon  receiving  the 
order  to  take  his  horses  up  the  steep  and  narrow 
lane  which  led  to  the  cottage;  for  it  was  the 
family  custom  to  leave  the  carriage  in  the  road 
below,  and  climb  the  hill  on  foot;  but  just  now 
local  curiosity  and  sympathy  were  stimulated  to 
a  degree  which  made  every  opportunity  for  ob- 
taining news  of  the  missing  heiress  welcome,  and 
he  carried  out  his  instructions  with  alacrity. 

"It  is  Aunt  Clara,  I  told  you  so,"  said  Lily; 
and  she  turned  white,  clutching  old  Miss  Dul- 
cinea's  soft  hand  with  frail  nervous  fingers.  "She 
has  come  to  fetch  me." 

"Bless  the  child,  don't  look  like  that,"  said 
Miss  Dulcinea,  frightened.  "I  won't  let  you  go. 
There,  my  dear,  I  promise!" 

"Oh,  you  will,  you  will,"  wailed  Lily,  who  had 
small  faith  in  Miss  Dulcinea's  strength  of  mind. 

"I  will  not,"  said  the  old  lady  shortly.     "I 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  279 

should  hope  I  know  how  to  face  Clara  by  this 
time." 

"Then  say  you  don't  know  where  I  am,  and 
I  will  hide,"  said  Lily,  and  she  flew  like  an  arrow 
from  a  bow,  from  the  house-place  where  they 
were  sitting,  through  the  dairy  and  into  the 
farmyard. 

"Lily,  Lily,  my  child,  come  back!  Let  there 
be  no  more  hiding,"  cried  Miss  Dulcinea,  calling 
after  her  in  terror.  "Oh,  Sally,  run,  run  after 
her.  Don't  let  her  out  of  your  sight.  I  am  so 
nervous  now,  I  can't  bear  to  lose  sight  of  any  one 
for  a  moment,"  she  cried  to  the  little  maid,  who 
was  busy  skimming  the  cream,  and  who  willingly 
left  her  work  and  ran  in  pursuit  of  the  truant. 

Clara  did  not  go  through  the  formality  of 
knocking  at  the  humble  door  of  Catherine's  cot- 
tage ;  for  she  measured  her  politeness  by  the  size 
of  her  neighbours'  houses,  and  was  accustomed 
to  intrude  upon  the  privacy  of  the  villagers  with- 
out hesitation  or  apology. 

"Here  you  are,  Aunt  Dulcinea,"  she  said,  "I 
have  brought  the  carriage — Bonner  was  very 
good  about  it,  though  he  must  have  been  an- 
noyed at  bringing  his  horses  up  that  dreadful 
road;  but  I  ordered  the  old  victoria,  so  that  the 
sides  getting  scratched  wouldn't  matter  so  much, 
and  I  have  come  to  take  Lily  home." 

"But  I  have  promised  not  to  let  her  go,  Clara," 
said  poor  Miss  Dulcinea  nervously.     "The  child 


280  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

wishes  to  stay  here  where  her  father  placed  her, 
you  know." 

"George  placed  her  in  Catherine's  care,  and, 
as  mamma  says,  a  terrible  lesson  has  he  had,  to 
show  him  the  unsuitability  of  Catherine  for  such 
a  trust,"  said  Clara  solemnly.  "But  he  would 
never  have  sent  her  to  stay  with  you,  Atmt  Dul- 
cinea.  That  is  quite  a  different  thing.  Catherine 
is  not,  as  mamma  says,  a  practical  person,  but 
she  has,  of  course,  a  certain  position  as  the  widow 
of  Sir  Philip  Adelstane,  though  she  has  foolishly 
never  even  tried  to  live  up  to  it.  But  it  is  a  very 
different  thing  from  leaving  Lily  with  you." 

"Am  I  not  her  grandfather's  own  sister,"  cried 
Miss  Dulcinea  indignantly;  "her  own  aunt?" 

"You  are  her  great-aunt,  of  course.  Nobody 
ever  denied  that.  But  it  is  I  who  am  her  aunt, 
and  mamma  said  I  was  to  fetch  her." 

*  *  Has  George  written  ? ' ' 

"How  could  George  write?  He  is  searching 
for  Philippa  day  and  night.  But  of  course  he 
would  not  wish  Lily  to  remain  now  that  Catherine 
has  gone.  And  I  must  say,  though  I  make  every 
excuse  for  the  dreadful  state  poor  Catherine 
must  be  in — and  we  all  pity  her,  I  am  sure,  from 
the  bottom  of  our  hearts — yet  she  ought  to  have 
brought  Lily  home  when  she  went  to  London.  It  is 
not  as  if  our  house  wasn't  on  the  way  to  the  station, 
for  it  is.  And  I  am  determined  to  take  Lily,  Aunt 
Dulcinea,  so  please  say  no  more  about  it." 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  281 

"And  I  am  equally  determined  no  one  shall 
take  her  without  authority  from  George,"  cried 
Miss  Dulcinea  indignantly;  "I  wonder  you 
can  want  to  take  her  away,  Clara,  I  do  indeed, 
when  you  know  how  well  she  is,  and  how  happily 
she  is  occupied.  Look  at  the  drawing  she  was 
doing  when  you  interrupted  us.  I  declare  it  is 
the  funniest  thing  that  was  ever  seen,  and  as 
like  me  as  two  peas,  as  I  can  see  for  myself,  for 
that  is  just  the  way  my  cap  falls  to  one  side 
when  I  drop  off  into  a  nap." 

"Caricaturing  is  a  very  bad  habit,"  said  Clara 
sharply. 

"Well,  and  so  it  may  be,  but  I  don't  see  why 
you  should  call  it  a  caricature,  for  it  is  just  a 
very  excellent  likeness,"  said  honest  Miss  Dul- 
cinea simply.  "She  takes  after  her  poor  mother, 
and  draws  everything  she  sees.  I  believe  the 
child  is  a  genius!" 

Clara  was  indignant,  as  persons  of  her  calibre 
in  all  ages  have  ever  been,  at  the  mere  supposition 
that  a  contemporary  of  their  own  could  be  a 
genius. 

"I  never  heard  such  rubbish.  Aunt  Dulcinea. 
You  needn't  think  to  put  me  off  by  showing 
me  Lily's  drawings.  As  if  I  had  not  seen  them 
often  enough,  and  punished  her  too  for  spoiling 
the  edges  of  her  copybooks.  Please  send  for 
her  at  once.  Surely  you  can  see  that  I  mean 
what  I  say." 


282  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"Do  you  think  I  am  one  to  give  up  a  Kttle 
thing  who  dings  to  us,  at  half  a  word  from  my 
own  niece?  You  can  just  go  home  by  yourself, 
Clara,  and  that's  all  about  it."  And  Miss 
Dulcinea  sat  down  with  her  hand  to  her 
heart,  and  a  very  bright  colour  in  her  soft  old 
cheeks. 

**I  do  not  think  you  can  be  serious,  Aunt 
Dulcinea,"  said  Clara,  "when  I  tell  you  I  have 
brought  the  carriage  all  the  way  up  here  for  no 
other  purpose  than  to  take  Lily  back.  Bonner 
had  actually  to  drive  into  that  rough  paddock 
to  turn  round." 

"It  does  not  matter.  The  hay  was  cut  long 
ago,"  said  Miss  Dulcinea  defiantly. 

"Does  not  matter!"  said  Clara,  hardly  able 
to  believe  her  ears.  "When  you  know  we  never 
bring  the  carriage  up  here?  I  cannot  think  you 
know  half  you  are  saying,  Aunt  Dulcinea.  And 
if  you  will  excuse  me,  I  shall  not  waste  time 
arguing  with  you  any  more.  I  shall  call  Lily 
for  myself." 

"Clara,  I  cannot  give  you  authority  to  run 
over  Catherine's  house,  and  I  am  sure  she  would 
not  like  it,"  said  Miss  Dulcinea,  trembling  with 
apprehension. 

"I  am  quite  as  nearly  related  to  Catherine 
as  you  are.  It  would  be  hard,  indeed,  if  relations 
could  not  go  in  and  out  of  each  other's  houses 
without  ceremony.    And  I  have  mamma's  author- 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  283 

ity,  which  is  much  more  than  yours  could  ever 
be,"  said  Clara  importantly. 

But  in  vain  did  she  call,  and  in  vain  did  she 
question  the  overgrown  Johnny  Roper  and  the 
rosy-faced  maiden,  whom  she  discovered,  to  her 
great  indignation,  gigghng  together  in  the  farm- 
yard. 

"There  is  no  order,  no  discipline,  on  Catherine's 
estate,  small  as  it  is,"  sighed  Clara,  and  she 
grew  hot  and  tired  searching  the  farm  premises 
and  beyond  them.  Her  loud  voice  echoed  through 
the  rafters  of  stable  and  bam,  and  reached  the 
darkest  recesses  of  the  little  wood;  until  Bonner 
sent  a  pointed  message  to  inquire  if  he  were  to 
keep  the  horses  standing  any  longer,  or  to  put 
them  up. 

"It  is  you  who  are  backing  up  Lily,  or  she 
would  not  have  dared  to  behave  so,"  said  Clara, 
when  at  length  she  retired  baffled  from  the  quest. 
"I  shall  tell  mamma,  Aunt  Dulcinea,  and  she  will 
know  what  to  do.  You  need  not  think  she  will 
give  in." 

Miss  Dulcinea  did  not  know  whether  to  laugh 
or  to  cry.  She  watched  the  insulted  Clara  drive 
away,  and  when  she  was  quite  out  of  sight, 
ventured  to  the  north  door  of  the  dairy,  and 
uttered  a  timid  call  or  two  upon  her  own  account. 

"Here  I  am,  Auntie,"  said  Lily,  and  she  slid 
down  the  great  oak  at  the  back  of  the  cottage 
with  a  suddenness  which  caused  Miss  Dulcinea 


284  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

to  scream  aloud.  "  I  thought  of  King  Charles, 
you  know,  and  climbed  up  in  a  minute  and  Sally 
ran  just  underneath  me  to  the  farmyard.  It 
was  so  funny!" 

"Promise  me  never  to  do  so  again.  You  might 
have  broken  your  neck,  my  darling.  And  oh, 
what  a  scene  poor  Lydia  will  make!  O  dear,  O 
dear,  that  there  should  be  so  much  trouble  and 
unpleasantness  in  this  world  on  such  a  beautiful 
evening  as  this! "  said  poor  Miss  Dulcinea,  bursting 
into  tears. 

"Was  Aunt  Clara  so  very  horrid?"  said  Lily, 
putting  her  arms  round  the  old  lady's  neck  pro- 
tectingly.  "Never  mind,  Auntie,  all  you  have 
to  do  now  is  to  write  a  telegram  to  papa,  and 
ask  him  to  say  I  may  stop  with  you  till  Cousin 
Catherine  comes  home." 

"The  sense  of  the  child!  "  said  poor  Miss  Dul- 
cinea; "why  didn't  I  think  of  it  before?"  and 
she  sat  down  and  wrote  out  with  trembling 
fingers  a  message  to  her  nephew,  and  desired 
Johnny  Roper  to  convey  it  to  the  post-office 
immediately. 

The  single  clue  supplied  by  the  policeman  at 
the  comer  of  Belgrave  Square  had  multipHed 
into  a  thousand  others,  bewildering  by  very  rea- 
son of  their  number  and  variety,  before  the  day 
fixed  for  the  funeral  of  Sir  Cecil  Adelstane,  which 
was  the  fifth  after  Philippa's  disappearance. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  285 

It  would  seem  that  tall  schoolgirls,  in  blue 
serge  dresses  and  black  straw  hats,  abounded 
in  every  quarter  of  London  and  the  suburbs; 
and  that  they  all  answered  minutely  to  the 
description  of  Philippa,  and  had  been  observed 
at  one  hour  or  another  of  that  fateful  Saturday, 
travelling  by  rail  or  by  road  in  every  possible 
direction. 

Paragraphs  with  sensational  headings — "Ab- 
duction of  an  Heiress,"  "Mysterious  Disappear- 
ance of  Sir  Cecil  Adelstane's  Niece  on  the  Day 
of  his  Death,"  "Supposed  Elopement  of  the 
greatest  Heiress  in  England" — appeared  in  the 
daily  papers,  after  the  insertion  of  the  advertise- 
ments and  the  offers  of  large  rewards  for  any 
information  leading  to  her  discovery.  Explana- 
tions of  similar  mysterious  disappearances  of 
young  girls  were  recalled,  and  related  at  length 
in  the  newspapers,  and  David  Moore  spent  the 
most  anxious  days  and  nights  of  his  life  in  the 
Raits'  automobile,  following  up  every  suggestion 
with  the  energy  of  despair,  and  interviewing 
hundreds  of  persons  who  were  anxious  to  obtain 
any  portion  of  the  proposed  rewards,  though  they 
had  nothing  to  offer  in  exchange. 

Catherine  became  but  the  ghost  of  herself  in 
those  five  days.  The  look  in  her  great  eyes,  wild 
with  misery,  and  unnaturally  bright  with  sleepless- 
ness, haunted  David's  thoughts,  and  drove  him  to 
make  incredible  exertions,  but  all  to  no  purpose. 


286  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

He  refused  to  leave  London  to  attend  the 
funeral  at  Welwysbere,  and  no  one  proposed 
that  Catherine  should  do  so.  Her  days  and 
nights  were  possessed  with  the  thought  of  her 
child,  and  she  showed  not  the  slightest  interest 
in  the  information  that  Sir  Cecil  had  appointed 
her  executrix  of  his  wiU  and  trustee  of  Philippa's 
inheritance,  jointly  with  George  Chilcott.  All 
the  necessary  business  was  left  to  George,  who 
was  surprised  and  touched  by  this  mark  of  the 
esteem  in  which  poor  Sir  Cecil  had  held  him,  and 
who  was  perforce  obliged  to  leave  the  search  for 
the  missing  heiress  to  others,  while  he  attended 
first  the  inquest  and  then  the  funeral  of  his 
friend  and  neighbour,  and  listened  to  the  explana- 
tions of  Mr.  Ash. 

The  yacht  was  left  to  Augusta,  but  the  Abbey 
was  not,  as  she  expected,  to  be  hers  for  life,  but 
was  willed  direct  to  Philippa,  to  be  maintained 
or  let,  until  her  coming  of  age  or  marriage,  accord- 
ing to  the  discretion  of  the  trustees;  while  the 
Adelstane  jewels,  and  every  farthing  Sir  Cecil 
possessed  outside  his  marriage  settlements,  went 
with  the  estate. 

Augusta  in  the  midst  of  her  grief,  and  the 
shock  of  seeing  herself  for  the  first  time  in  wid- 
ow's weeds,  found  time  to  be  astonished  and 
offended  at  the  provisions  of  her  late  hus- 
band's testament. 

"Of  course  I  bought  the  house  in  Belgrave 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  287 

Square  and  my  river  bungalow  with  my  own 
money;  and  my  own  diamonds  are  finer  than 
anything  the  Adelstanes  ever  owned,  though 
they  may  not  be  so  old,"  she  said  to  Lady  Grace; 
"but  really  one  might  say  I  owe  nothing  to  poor 
Cecil,  at  this  rate,  except  the  yacht,  which,  of 
course,  I  shall  sell.  How  can  a  woman  go  yacht- 
ing by  herself?  And  if  she  took  any  one  with  her 
there  would  only  be  a  talk.  But  I  did  think 
I  should  have  had  the  Abbey  for  my  life." 

"Perhaps  it  was  not  in  his  power." 

"That  is  all  nonsense.  I  am  sure  it  must 
have  been." 

"You  know  you  always  hated  the  place, 
Augusta." 

"I  shall  hate  it  more  than  ever,  now  that  it 
is  left  away  from  me  so  oddly,"  said  Augusta, 
weeping.  "Oh,  Grace,  how  little  did  we  think 
when  we  left  this  house  only  a  few  weeks  ago — 
you  and  me — that  when  we  came  back  I  should 
be — a  widow!" 

"Poor  Augusta!" 

"Just  fancy,  Grace,  if  only  poor  Cecil  had 
come  up  to  town  with  us,  instead  of  bothering 
himself  over  this  stupid  business  with  the  agent, 
he  would  have  been  alive  now." 

With  such  reflections,  oft  repeated,  did  Augusta 
beguile  the  hours  that  elapsed  between  the 
funeral  and  the  reading  of  her  late  husband's 
will,  and  her  departure  from  the  Abbey ;  and  her 


288  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

bosom  friend  found  her  trite  ejaculations  exces- 
sively wearisome,  as  she  sat  patiently  by  the 
side  of  Lady  Adelstane's  couch,  in  her  carefully 
darkened  boudoir. 

* '  I  suppose  I  look  too  dreadful,"  wailed  Augusta. 
"I  can't  sleep  at  night,  what  with  thinking  what 
has  become  of  Philippa,  and  this  dreadful  blow. 
I  feel  all  this  trouble  must  have  made  its  mark 
on  me,  and  I  hardly  dare  look  at  my  own  face 
in  the  glass,  feeling  as  I  do!" 

"Black  is  very  becoming  to  you,"  said  Lady 
Grace;  "but,  of  course,  crying  is  not  becoming 
to  any  one.  If  I  were  you  I  should  try  not  to 
cry  any  more.    What  good  does  it  do?" 

"That  is  what  Blanche  says.  She  is  so  unsym- 
pathetic," sobbed  Augusta  resentfully.  "Yet 
if  I  show  the  slightest  interest  in  anything  prac- 
tical, she  is  ready  to  hint  that  I  never  cared  for 
poor  Cecil  at  all.  One's  relatives  are  very  poor 
comfort  in  time  of  trouble,  I  must  say." 

"They  are  very  poor  comfort  at  any  time, 
so  far  as  I  have  ever  been  able  to  make  out," 
said  Lady  Grace.  "Try  not  to  talk  about  it, 
Gussie,  and  you  will  grow  calmer." 

But  Augusta  had  no  idea  of  growing  calmer 
until  the  first  days  of  mourning  should  be  over, 
and  gave  full  vent  to  her  emotions  upon  every 
opportunity. 

"How  her  ladyship  du  take  on,"  said  the 
west-country  servants  admiringly.    But  Pilking- 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  289 

ton  contented  himself  with  a  dark  reminder  that 
shallow  water  made  most  noise. 

George  Chilcott  proposed  to  escort  Augusta 
back  to  town  on  the  morning  after  the  funeral, 
when,  as  Philippa's  trustee,  he  felt  doubly  bound 
to  devote  himself  to  the  search.  He  had  replied 
to  Miss  Dulcinea's  telegram  with  a  peremptory 
request  that  she  should  keep  Lily  at  Shepherd's 
Rest,  and  as  he  wrote  a  line  to  the  same  effect 
to  Clara,  the  effort  to  reclaim  the  child  had  been 
abandoned  by  his  mother  and  sister,  and  George 
did  not,  in  the  midst  of  his  new  cares,  give  much 
thought  to  his  little  daughter,  of  whose  happiness 
he  felt  assured,  and  whom  he  had  not  time  to 
visit. 

But  as  he  stood  upon  the  platform  at  Ilverton, 
watching  the  arrival  of  the  Welwysbere  car- 
riage, and  the  almost  reverential  reception  of 
the  new-made  widow,  whose  face  was  hidden 
by  an  opaque  crape  veil,  and  who  leant  the  weight 
of  her  affliction  heavily  upon  the  arm  of  her 
good-natured  brother-in-law,  followed  by  Blanche 
Rait  and  Grace  Trumoin — George  was  startled 
by  a  sudden  timid  touch  upon  his  arm. 

There  stood  little  Lily,  looking  up  at  him 
with  great  frightened  eyes,  though  a  furtive 
smile  hovered  about  her  face,  which  was  some- 
thing plumper  and  rosier  than  when  he  had  seen 
it  last. 

19 


290  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"Why,  my  little  Lily,"  he  said,  surprised 
and  startled  at  this  unexpected  apparition.  He 
lifted  her  from  the  ground  to  brush  her  fore- 
head with  his  moustache.  "Has  Aimt  Dulcinea 
brought  you  down  to  see  your  dad  off?  That 
is  very  good  of  her." 

"Don't  be  angry,  papa,"  faltered  Lily. 

"You  came  alone?"  George  looked  vexed  and 
a  worried  pucker  rose  between  his  brows.  "That 
was  not  right,  Lily." 

"No,  no,  Sally  came.  I  go  for  walks  with 
Sally,"  and  she  indicated  a  cheerful  ruddy  coun- 
tenance in  the  background  of  Augusta's  solemn 
train  of  black-clad  retainers.  "Aunt  Dulcinea 
said  I  might  come — she  did  not  like  to  intrude — " 
said  Lily,  in  an  awe-struck  whisper,  with  another 
quick  glance  towards  the  black-clad  group.  "But 
she  said  no  one  would  mind  me,  as  I  am  so  little. 
She  did  not  know  why  I  wanted  so  much  to  come." 

"Not  to  see  me?"  said  George,  relieved  of  his 
fears  lest  Lily  should  have  lapsed  into  evil  ways 
imder  the  feeble  rule  of  poor  Miss  Dulcinea. 

"I  wanted  to  see  you,  daddy,"  said  Lily, 
with  the  coaxing  accent  which  Clara  deprecated, 
and  she  laid  her  face  against  the  big  hand.  Then 
she  looked  up  imploringly  and  cried,  "Oh, 
daddy,  take  me  with  you!" 
■  "Why,  I  thought  you  wanted  so  much  to 
stay  at  Shepherd's  Rest?  Wasn't  that  what  you 
wanted?" 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  291 

"Yes,  yes,  I  like  being  there,"  said  Lily  al- 
most feverishly.  "But  it's  not  that,  it's  not 
that!  Oh,  daddy,  daddy,  I  want  to  go  to  Cousin 
Catherine." 

"My  dear,"  said  George  gently,  "don't  you 
know  Cousin  Catherine  is  in  very  great  trouble 
now?  She  couldn't  think  of  you  or  of  anything 
else." 

"I  know,  I  know,  but  I  don't  want  her  to 
think  of  me.  I  want  to  comfort  her,"  said  Lily, 
clasping  her  little  thin  hands  with  a  gesture  so 
like  Delia's,  that  George  almost  started.  "I 
daresay  you  think  it  would  be  impossible,  a 
little  girl  like  me;  but,  oh,  you  don't  know  how 
Cousin  Catherine  cried  at  night  when  Philippa 
went  to  London,  and  she  said  it  comforted  her 
then  to  have  me  with  her,  and  I  am  sure  it 
would  comfort  her  again  now.  Oh,  do  take  me, 
I  could  comfort  her  at  night,"  said  the  child 
almost  passionately,  "and  every  one  says  it  will 
kill  her  if  Philippa  is  never  found  any  more." 

George  Chilcott  pulled  his  moustache  irres- 
olutely. His  heart  inclined  him  to  take  Lily 
to  London. 

"If  I  thought  it  would  comfort  Catherine," 
he  said,  and  looked  appealing  at  Lady  Grace  and 
Mrs.  Rait,  who  had  greeted  him  in  silence,  and 
now  stood  looking  down  at  the  little  anxioiis 
questioner,  who  was  too  much  absorbed  in  her  re- 
quest to  have  even  noted  their  proximity.     "But 


292  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

I  couldn't  take  you  in  any  case  to-day,  there 
would  have  to  be  all  sorts  of  arrangements  made. 
I'll  think  about  it,  Lily,  and  perhaps  send  for 
you  later." 

"But  there  need  be  no  arrangements,  for  I 
have  made  them  all,"  said  the  little  creature, 
trembling  with  hope.  She  was  holding  a  tightly 
packed  brown-paper  parcel  under  her  left  arm, 
which  she  now  produced  and  exhibited.  "I 
have  brought  my  nightgown  and  my  tooth- 
brush and  a  pair  of  shoes  and  three  clean  pocket- 
handkerchiefs  in  case  you  should  say  yes.  And 
I  have  my  Sunday  frock  on.  I  am  all  ready  for 
London,  papa,  I  am  indeed!" 

"Poor  little  thing!"  said  Lady  Grace. 

"Such  forethought  ought  to  be  rewarded," 
said  Mrs.  Rait,  her  hearty  tones  somewhat  sub- 
dued to  attune  with  her  mourning  garb.  I  be- 
lieve it  might  do  Catherine  good,  if  anything 
would,"  she  said.  "Let's  take  her  along,  Mr. 
Chilcott.  Grace  and  I  will  look  after  her,  and 
if  Catherine  doesn't  want  her,  why,  there's  no 
harm  done,  for  I'll  take  her  to  my  hotel,  and 
welcome." 

"It's  most  awfully  kind  of  you,"  said  George; 
"but  there's  Miss  Dulcinea  to  be  thought  of." 

"I  have  written  a  letter  for  Sally  to  take  back; 
she  has  it  in  her  pocket.  I  tried  to  think  of 
everything,"  said  Lily's  small  treble.  "I  didn't 
want  nobody  to  be  anxious  about  me." 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  293 

Having  thus  miraculously  obtained  her  wish, 
and  heard  Augusta's  faint  assent  to  Mrs.  Ralt's 
proposition  that  the  child  should  travel  with 
them,  Lily  had  the  sense  to  efface  herself  as  much 
as  possible,  following  Lady  Grace  like  a  shadow, 
and  not  daring  to  utter  a  sound  in  Augusta's 
portly  sable-shrouded  presence. 

She  curled  herself  into  the  comer  of  the  com- 
partment she  was  told  to  enter,  and  looked  out 
of  the  window,  watching  her  father  give  a  leaf 
out  of  his  pocket-book  to  Sally  for  Miss  Dulcinea, 
and  send  her  away,  and  hardly  daring  to  breathe 
until  the  train  was  off,  when  she  ventured  upon 
a  whispered  inquiry. 

'* Isn't  daddy  coming?" 

"He  is  in  a  smoking  carriage." 

She  was  so  small  and  slight  for  her  age,  that 
she  was  used  to  being  lifted  on  to  people's  knees, 
and,  after  an  hour  or  two  of  patient  silence  in 
her  comer,  accepted  gratefully  the  overtures  of 
Lady  Grace,  and  came  and  sat  in  her  lap.  Their 
conversation  was  carried  on  in  whispers  for  fear 
of  waking  Augusta;  until  presently  drowsiness 
overtook  Lily  herself,  and  she  fell  asleep  with 
her  head  on  her  friend's  shoulder. 

To  Grace  Trumoin  it  was  almost  a  strange 
sensation  to  have  a  child  slumbering  in  her  arms, 
and  she  felt  very  tenderly  towards  Lily,  whose 
black  eyelashes  lay  against  such  a  small  pale 
face  that  she  looked  scarcely  more  than  a  baby 


294  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

as  she  slept.  The  thin  childish  arms  embraced 
her  waist,  and  the  little  dark  head  gradually 
drooped  until  it  lay  in  the  hollow  of  her  arm, 
and  it  was  so  that  Lily's  father  saw  them 
together,  when  the  train  stopped  at  Swindon. 

The  warm  colour  rose  in  Lady  Grace's  face 
as  she  met  his  pleased  grateful  look,  because, 
alas,  she  knew  that  Blanche  Rait  was  looking 
on  and  approving,  in  the  belief  that  she  was 
acting  by  design,  and  playing  her  cards  well  in 
the  pre-arranged  game  of  matrimony. 

"He  will  not  think  so,"  she  said  to  herself 
sadly;  "he  is  indeed  without  guile,  humble  and 
unsuspecting  in  his  strength  and  his  honesty. 
And  if  they  knew  what  was  in  my  heart — what 
a  longing  for  duties  clear,  and  simple,  and  straight- 
forward, for  a  place  of  rest,  to  be  necessary  to 
some  one,  even  if  it  were  only  this  poor  little 
girl — they  would  not  understand;  with  their 
kind  vulgar  scheming  to  find  George  Chilcott  a 
wife,  and  me  a  home  of  my  own." 

But  she  did  Blanche  Rait,  at  least,  injustice; 
for  though  she  might  be  vulgar,  and  a  schemer, 
she  would  have  understood,  and  but  that  she 
believed  Grace  Trumoin  would  make  George's 
happiness  and  her  own  in  the  hoped-for  marriage, 
she  would  not  have  lifted  her  little  finger  to  bring 
it  about. 

The  agony  of  joy  which  little  Lily  exhibited 
when  she  threw  herself    into    Catherine's  arms 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  295 

melted  the  hearts  of  all  who  were  present  except 
Catherine  herself;  for  there  is,  perhaps,  no 
heart  so  dead  towards  another  woman's  child  as 
that  of  the  mother  who  has  just  lost  her  own. 

Poor  little  Lily,  who  had  mistaken  Catherine's 
motherly  tenderness,  and  the  caresses  which 
had  been  heaped  upon  her  at  Shepherd's  Rest 
for  evidence  that  she  was  as  dearly  loved  as 
Philippa  herself,  felt  all  the  chill  of  disappoint- 
ment without  knowing  why,  and  the  conviction 
that  they  had  made  a  mistake  flashed  upon 
Blanche  Rait,  who  drew  Catherine  aside. 

"Look  here,  Catherine,  there  is  no  reason 
you  should  be  saddled  with  that  kid.  Let  me 
take  her  to  the  hotel  with  us.  Or,  here  is  Grace 
Trumoin  dying  to  take  charge  of  her.  They've 
taken  a  regular  fancy  to  one  another.  And  you 
look  like  a  ghost,  you're  not  fit  to  have  her  with 
you.  But  the  poor  little  atom,  you  see,  took  it 
into  her  head  that  she  would  be  a  comfort  to 
you." 

"A  comfort!"  Catherine  almost  smiled. 

"Aye — well,  I  see  we  were  a  pack  of  fools;  but 
you  know  we  didn't  want  to  leave  a  stone  un- 
turned— and  if  she  could  have  brought  you  the 
merest  shred — one  never  knows.  A  child,  or  an 
animal,  I've  often  found  are  better  comforters 
to  us  in  trouble  than  we  can  be  to  each  other — 
though  I've  never  known  such  trouble  as  yours. 
But  you  sha'n't  be  bothered " 


296  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"Stay!"  cried  Catherine,  recovering  herself. 
"I  am  growing  selfish  and  hateful  in  my  trouble. 
Did  I  seem  unloving  to  Delia's  child,  poor  little 
Lily?" 

"Of  course  it's  understood  you  want  nobody's 
child  about  you  just  now,"  said  Blanche. 

"How  could  I  be  so  unkind!"  said  Catherine, 
and  with  a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling  she  ran 
to  Lily,  who  was  standing  forlornly  at  the  end  of 
the  room,  holding  her  father's  hand,  and  clinging 
faithfully  to  her  brown-paper  parcel.  She  kissed 
the  child  many  times  to  make  amends  for  her 
coldness,  vehemently  insisting  that  she  should 
remain  in  charge  of  herself  and  Roper,  and  not 
be  carried  off  to  Lady  Grace's  flat  or  Mrs.  Ralt's 
hotel. 

"I  am  sure  I  have  no  objection,  I  am  only  too 
willing  to  agree  to  anything  that  can  be  of  any 
comfort  to  anybody,"  said  Augusta  faintly, 
when  Catherine  appealed  for  her  consent  to 
this  arrangement.  "Only,  mind,  I  distinctly 
decline  to  be  responsible  for  her.  I  have  had 
quite  enough,  Catherine,  of  trying  to  take  care 
of  other  people's  children." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

However  deep  the  sorrow,  the  comments  of  a 
fool  can  still  aggravate  the  torments  of  anxiety, 
as  the  worrying  of  a  cur  tortured  the  dying  lion 
in  the  fable. 

"Here  is  Friday  and  no  news.  I  am  almost 
beginning  to  give  up  hope,  aren't  you,  Catherine?" 
wailed  Augusta. 

"I  shall  never  give  up  hope,"  said  Catherine, 
with  white  lips. 

"It's  a  week  to-morrow,"  said  Augusta.  "I 
simply  can't  understand  it.  I  always  thought 
the  police  were  so  clever.  I  must  say  I  shall 
never  think  so  again." 

"They  are  doing  their  best;  and  many  others 
are  searching  besides  the  police." 

"What  do  you  really  think  has  become  of 
her?"  said  Augusta. 

She  asked  this  question  at  intervals  with 
maddening  persistency,  and  made,  besides,  end- 
less suggestions  of  no  practical  value,  greatly 
to  her  own  satisfaction  and  the  impatience  of 
her  family. 

"If  it  were  possible   to   request  Augusta  to 

297 


298  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

walk  out  of  her  own  house,"  said  old  Lady  Sarah 
to  Catherine,  who  went  daily  to  Curzon  Street 
to  make  her  sorrowful  report  of  failure,  "it  would 
afford  me  sincere  pleasure  to  do  so.  I  suppose 
one  can't  go  as  far  as  that.  I  came  very  near 
asking  her  to  leave  mine  this  morning,  however. 
There  she  sat,  asking  me  who  came  next  to 
Philippa  in  the  succession.  I  told  her,  Philippa's 
son,"  said  the  old  lady,  fuming,  "and  was  within 
an  ace  of  flinging  this  scent-bottle  at  her  head. 
I  wish  I  had  done  it,  too.  At  my  age  no  one 
could  say  much,  no  matter  what  I  did.  I  should 
plead  softening  of  the  brain,  or  senile  decay," 
and  she  laughed  grimly.  "But  what  can  you 
expect?  I  don't  believe  she  has  ever  given  a 
sincere  thought  to  poor  Cecil's  death;  she  is  so 
taken  up  with  her  own  widowhood."  Then  her 
tone  changed  to  bitterness.  "Oh,  my  dear,  my 
dear,  why  don't  you  reproach  me  with  my  fool's 
advice  to  you?" 

"Do  not  reproach  yourself,"  said  Catherine, 
and  she  kissed  the  soft  old  hand.  "It  was  not 
only  you,  it  was  poor  Cecil  too,  and  David  Moore. 
All  so  different,  and  yet  all  seeing  no  reason  why 
I  should  not  let  my  darling  go." 

"I  would  kill  myself  if  it  would  do  any  good," 
said  Lady  Sarah  vehemently. 

"And  I  shouldn't  have  listened  to  any  of  you — 
if  it  had  not  been — oh,  if  it  had  not  been,  that  she 
wished  it  so  much.     I  never  forget  that,"  said 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  299 

Catherine  with  quivering  lips.  "Oh,  Lady 
Sarah,  you  are  very  clever — cannot  you  think 
of  something  more  that  we  could  do?" 

"My  dear,  my  dear,  I  wish  I  could.  But  there 
is  no  reason  for  any  one  but  Augusta  to  give  up 
hope,"  said  Lady  Sarah,  affecting  a  cheerfulness 
she  did  not  feel.  "No  blackmailer  could  come 
forward  in  the  midst  of  this  hue  and  cry.  They 
would  be  certain  to  wait  until  some  of  the  excite- 
ment had  died  down,  and  until  they  could  get 
her  safely  away  and  bargain  from  a  coign  of 
vantage.  It  is  the  best  sign  possible  that  we  can 
hear  nothing,  that  there  has  been  no  news. 

Catherine  kissed  the  soft  old  hand  again  in 
silence.    Her  misery  was  too  deep  for  words. 

"I  believe  Catherine  is  in  the  right,  and  that 
woman  Mmart  knows  something,"  said  Blanche 
Rait  bluntly  to  David.  "Why  don't  you  get  it 
out  of  her?  You  could  if  any  one  could.  She's 
in  love  with  you." 

"Nonsense,"  said  David,  at  once  annoyed, 
embarrassed,  and  incredulous,  as  an  Englishman 
usually  is  at  any  suggestion  that  a  woman  to 
whom  he  is  indifferent  has  shown  signs  of  a 
preference  for  him. 

"You  may  say  nonsense,  but  it's  plain  fact; 
the  sort  of  fact  nobody  would  mention  but  I, 
who  pride  myself  on  saying  anything  that  comes 
into  my  head,"  said  Blanche,  and  indeel  there 


300  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

was  no  communication  too  delicate  for  her  to 
make  to  her  astonished  friends. 

"She  rather  avoids  me  than  otherwise,"  said 
David,  almost  angrily. 

"That's  a  bad  sign,"  said  Mrs.  Rait,  shaking 
her  head. 

"Surely  it  would  be  a  worse  sign  if  she  ran 
after  me,"  he  retorted,  laughing  in  spite  of  himself. 

"Not  at  all;  she  avoids  you  because  she's 
afraid  to  trust  herself  alone  with  you,  for  fear 
of  turning  soft  and  letting  out  her  secret.  Take 
my  advice,  get  her  alone,  and  shake  it  out  of 
her." 

"She  has  told  us  all  she  knows." 

"She  has  not." 

"You  suspect  her  because  she's  a  foreigner, 
like  poor  old  George." 

"I  suspect  her  because  nobody  knows  anything 
about  her." 

"The  police  have  verified  her  references." 

"What  does  that  amount  to?  She  has  stayed 
a  couple  of  years  each  in  half  a  dozen  families, 
learning  their  secrets  and  keeping  her  own,"  said 
Mrs.  Rait  contemptuously.  "She  is  deep  and 
cunning,  and  she  gained  a  great  influence  over 
poor  little  Philippa,  who  is  only  just  clever 
enough  to  be  sillier  than  other  people,  and  to  put 
her  whole  trust  in  a  woman  she'd  never  seen 
before  because  she  flattered  her.  She  tries  to 
flatter  Augusta,  but  it's  a  bit  awkward  for  both 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  301 

of  them  when  I'm  about,"  said  Mrs.  Rait,  laughing 
shortly.  "However,  her  flattery  has  done  very 
little  for  her,  since  Augusta  has  no  intention  of 
keeping  her.  She  declares  now  she  only  got  her 
for  Philippa's  sake." 

"Poor  woman!" 

"I  waste  no  pity  on  her.  Poor  Philippa,  I 
say;  to  be  taken  away  from  her  mother,  and 
handed  over  to  the  tender  mercies  of  a  woman 
like  that." 

David  groaned. 

"There!  I  know  I'm  a  Job's  comforter.  But 
there  is  a  certain  comfort  too;  for  if  I'm  right, 
it  couldn't  be  to  her  interest  that  Philippa  should 
come  to  bodily  hurt,"  said  Mrs.  Rait,  relenting. 
"You  mustn't  take  to  heart  what  I  say." 

"I  care  little  enough  what  any  one  says  to 
me,"  said  David  sadly,  "but  you  know  it  was  I 
— ^like  the  confounded  ass  I  am — who  undertook 
the  responsibility  of  advising  Catherine  to  let 
Philippa  come  here." 

"Aye,  did  you?  Well,  you  didn't  know  Augusta 
so  well  then  as  you  do  now,  I'll  be  bound,"  said 
Mrs.  Rait. 

Since  that  first  terrible  moment  when  she 
learnt  that  her  child  was  lost,  Catherine  had 
hardly  rested.  She  had  spent  many  hours  of  the 
long  summer  nights,  attended  by  the  faithful 
terrified  Roper,  wandering  in  the  streets. 


302  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"You'll  kill  yourself,  my  lady,  and  what  good 
can  we  do?"  sobbed  Roper,  who  was  old  and 
stout,  and  very  little  suited  to  share  these  noctur- 
nal wanderings ;  but  nevertheless  determined  that 
her  mistress  should  not  trust  herself  alone  in 
London  streets  after  dark. 

"Would  you  have  me  going  tranquilly  to  bed, 
not  knowing  my  darling's  fate,  or  where  she  may 
be,  or  what  may  be  happening  to  her?  I  should 
go  mad  the  moment  my  head  touched  my  pillow," 
said  Catherine  vehemently;  and  though  Roper 
slept  heavily  in  the  daytime  to  make  up  for  her 
broken  repose,  her  mistress  seemed  able  to  exist 
without  sleep  at  all;  and  when  she  fell  now 
and  then  into  an  uneasy  doze  in  an  arm-chair, 
her  dreams  were  so  frightful  that  she  woke 
screaming  with  terror,  and  filled  with  nameless 
apprehensions. 

"It  will  kill  her  if  it  goes  on,"  Roper  said 
despairingly,  yet  neither  she  nor  the  others  could 
do  aught  to  relieve  the  strain. 

But  on  the  second  night  after  little  Lily's 
arrival,  resting  her  tired  body  for  a  moment 
on  the  child's  bed,  and  her  head  upon  the  child's 
pillow  as  she  bade  her  good-night,  Catherine 
fell  suddenly  asleep. 

Lily,  having  spent  a  whole  day  in  this  atmos- 
phere of  unrest,  and  heard,  it  may  be,  from  the 
servants  many  surmises  not  intended  for  her  ears, 
had  perhaps  realised  more  clearly  the  gravity 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  303 

of  the  situation,  and  the  agony  of  Philippa's 
mother;  for  she  had  poured  forth  passionately, 
with  her  face  hidden  upon  Catherine's  breast, 
her  prayer  for  her  cousin's  safe  return. 

She  prayed  aloud,  as  a  child  of  her  age  usually 
does,  and  as  the  petition  did  not  form  part  of 
her  usual  formula,  she  used  language  all  her 
own;  earnest,  stilted,  and  full  of  quaint  mistakes 
which  would  have  made  Catherine  smile  in  a 
happier  time,  but  now  only  caused  her  tears  to 
flow  more  freely,  as  she  followed  words  she  could 
not  have  borne  from  older  lips. 

"God  may  listen  to  this  little  innocent,  per- 
haps, though  He  has  not  listened  to  me,"  she 
thought.  And  it  was  during  that  moment's 
opening  of  her  heart  to  consolation,  as  the  child's 
voice  softly  murmured  in  her  ears,  that  her 
strained  nerves  suddenly  relaxed  their  tension, 
and  sleep,  deep  and  dreamless,  overtook  her 
tired  brain. 

Catherine  slept,  and  the  child  waked ;  not  daring 
to  move,  scarcely  even  to  breathe,  lest  she  should 
disturb  that  slumber. 

"Roper  said  she  would  die  if  she  didn't  sleep; 
and  now  she  has  gone  to  sleep,  so  she  will  not 
die,"  thought  Lily.  "But  she  said  some  one  must 
be  always  watching  for  Philippa.  I  will  watch. 
They  think  me  a  baby,  but  I  am  not  a  baby,  and 
I  can  lie  awake  as  well  as  a  grown-up  person.  I 
shall  think  one  of  my  thinks  until  I  get  excited 


304  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

and  interested,  and  when  one  is  excited  and  in- 
terested one  never  feels  sleepy." 

The  hours  of  the  night  rolled  on,  and  Catherine 
never  moved,  and  it  was  not  until  the  dawn  began 
to  grow  in  the  sky,  visible  above  the  trees  of  the 
square  through  the  uncurtained  open  window, 
that  Lily's  eyelids  grew  too  heavy  for  her  heroism, 
and  closed  without  her  own  knowledge. 

Dawn  grew  to  day,  the  sunshine  streamed 
through  the  open  window,  and  Catherine  woke, 
at  first  to  peace,  and  then  to  that  sudden  familiar 
pang  of  recollected  sorrow.  She  realised  that 
she  had  slept  through  the  night,  wrapped  in  her 
wool  dressing-gown,  on  the  little  bed  which  had 
been  placed  beside  her  own  for  Lily.  Her  start 
woke  the  child. 

"I  haven't  been  to  sleep,"  said  Lily  drowsily, 
"at  least,  I  didn't  mean  to.  I  saw  the  daylight 
come.  I  was  watching.  Cousin  Catherine,  and 
you  went  to  sleep  while  I  was  saying  my  prayers. 
Do  you  remember?" 

"I  remember." 

"I  kept  awake,  thinking.  One  of  my  thinks 
was  that  you  told  daddy  I  was  a  comfort  to  you; 
so  that  he  was  glad  he  listened  to  me  and  brought 
me  here."  She  stole  a  glance  at  Catherine.  "Do 
you  think  that  will  ever  come  true?" 

"Yes,  Lily,  yes,  I  promise  it  shall  come  true." 

"Sometimes  you  break  your  promises,"  said 
Lily  wistfully.     "You  said  you'd  come  back — 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  305 

and  you  didn't  come  back.  You  didn't  even 
write.  But  I'm  not  blaming  you,"  she  added 
hastily.  "I  know  grown-up  people  are  not  very 
good  at  keeping  promises.  Philippa  never  breaks 
her  promises,  so  wherever  she  is  I  expect  I  shall 
get  her  letter  as  usual,"  said  Lily  calmly.  **I 
told  Sally  to  be  sure  and  forward  it." 

Catherine  looked  startled. 

"When  did  you  get  her  last  letter?" 

"On  Saturday  morning.  I  always  get  it  on 
Saturday.  She  writes  on  Friday,  and  I  on  Sun- 
day," explained  Lily.  "We  agreed  we  was  to 
all  the  time  she  was  away.  But  I  wrote  an  extra 
to  tell  her  I  was  at  Shepherd's  Rest,  so  she  need 
not  be  so  careful  what  she  wrote;  because  at 
home  Aunt  Clara  reads  my  letters,  and  so  Philippa 
can't  tell  me  any  of  her  secrets  like  she  does  other 
times.  And  you  got  a  letter  from  her  too  on 
Saturday  morning,  Cousin  Catherine,  don't  you 
remember?  Or  is  it  too  short  a  time  ago  for  you 
to  remember?  You  said  once  that  old  people 
remembered  best  what  happened  a  long  time 
ago.  Only  you  were  down  at  the  Abbey  when 
it  came,  because  of  poor  Sir  Cecil."  Her  voice 
sank  to  an  awe-struck  whisper. 

"Yes,  I  got  a  letter,  but  Philippa  did  not  tell 
me  any  secrets  in  it,"  said  Catherine  anxiously. 
"Think,  Lily,  think,  my  darling.  Did  she 
tell  you  anything — anything  special  in  that 
letter?" 


306  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"Lots  and  lots  of  special  things,"  said  Lily- 
surprised.  "Because  she  knew  I  wouldn't  have 
to  show  it  to  any  one  at  Shepherd's  Rest,  you 
know.  So  she  put  'Private,'  and  told  me  all 
her  secrets — at  least  nearly  all — ^just  as  if  we  had 
been  talking.  There  was  four  whole  sheets.  I 
read  it  all  alone  in  the  porch  while  I  ate  my 
strawberries  because  Aunt  Dulcinea  was  crying 
too  much  to  come  to  breakfast." 

"Lily,  you  haven't  lost  that  letter,  have  you? 
You  know  where  it  is?" 

"It's here,"  said  Lily,  and  she  stretched  out  her 
arm,  took  her  Sunday  frock  from  the  post  of  the 
little  bed  where  Catherine  had  slept  so  soundly, 
and  lugged  a  thick  crumpled  letter  from  a  small 
torn  calico  pocket.  "I  always  keep  her  last  letter 
in  my  pocket  till  the  next  one  comes ;  but  I  can't 
show  it  to  you,  Cousin  Catherine,"  she  said  re- 
proachfully, "when  I  told  you  it  was  private." 

"There  will  be  nothing — I  cannot  believe  there 
would  be — anything,"  said  Catherine  to  herself, 
trembling,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  letter. 
"But  there  might  be — there  might — Lily,  you  will 
show  me  the  letter,  won't  you,  if  I  promise  faith- 
fully, faithfully,  not  to  tell  any  of  the  secrets?" 

But  she  would  not  take  it  from  the  child, 
though  she  put  both  arms  round  her,  and  held 
her  and  her  letter  tightly. 

"I  can't,  it  is  private,"  said  Lily,  and  began 
to  cry. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  307 

But  Catherine  laid  her  cheek  against  the  little 
face,  and  coaxed  and  petted  and  reasoned  until 
the  poor  little  conscience  wavered. 

"If  you  are  sure  it  will  help  to  find  Philippa 
— if  you  solemnly  promise  to  forget  everything 
in  it — if  you  will  tell  her  that  it  was  your  fault, 
that  you  made  me,"  she  gasped  between  her  sobs. 
And  the  end  of  it  was  that  she  sat  by,  frightened 
and  miserable,  gazing  with  reproachful  eyes 
while  Catherine  read  the  scrawled  blotted  out- 
pourings which  resembled  so  little  Philippa' s 
carefully  indited  letters  to  her  mother. 

They  were  very  innocent  secrets  that  Philippa 
had  confided  to  her  small  contemporary;  but 
expressed  with  the  tenderness  and  sentiment 
which  the  young  are  apt  to  conceal,  however 
unconsciously,  from  their  parents  and  guardians, 
and  lavish  upon  each  other;  as  though  authority 
must  of  necessity  make  full  confidence  impossible. 

Little  Lily  possessed  the  rare  gift  of  sympathy, 
besides  an  intelligence  far  beyond  her  years,  so 
that,  young  as  she  was,  she  stood  more  upon  a 
level  with  Philippa  in  her  dreams  and  fancies 
than  her  elders  could,  who  would  have  had  to 
look  back  twenty  years  or  more  into  the  past 
before  they  could  realise  the  point  of  view  from 
which  Philippa  wrote: 

"My  own  darling  Lilpil, — It's  glorious  your 
being  at  Shepherd's  Rest  like  we  always  planned. 


308  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

No,  of  course  I  am  not  one  bit  jealous,  it  would 
be  very  odd  if  I  was,  when  I  am  having  such  a 
splendid  time.  I  promise  you  shall  go  on  being 
my  most  confidential  friend,  just  as  you  always 
have  been;  but  of  course  there  are  things  I 
couldn't  possibly  tell  you  till  you're  in  your 
teens,  then  I  will  certainly  tell  you  everything. 
Still,  I've  thousands  of  secrets  I  can  tell  you, 
and  now,  instead  of  saving  them  up  till  we  meet, 
I  can  write  them,  as  you  won't  have  to  show 
your  letters  to  any  one  at  Shepherd's  Rest. 

"Really  my  most  delightful  secret  is  that  I've 
almost  made  up  my  mind  to  be  an  Army  nurse, 
but  don't  tell  any  one,  as  you  know  how  people 
always  laugh  at  one.  They  wear  red  crosses  on 
their  arms  and  go  to  wars  wherever  there's 
fighting.  Cousin  David  told  me  about  them, 
and  how  some  of  them  died  from  hard  work  in 
the  South  African  "War.  I  thought  how  delight- 
ful it  would  be  if  he  were  wounded — ^not  badly, 
you  know,  out  enough  to  want  nursing — and 
was  carried  into  a  tent,  and  found  me  waiting 
in  a  lovely  white  cap  and  apron,  to  take  care 
of  him.  If  you  like,  darling,  you  may  decide 
to  be  one  too,  and  then  we  can  have  talks  about 
it  when  we  meet. 

"Another  secret  is  that  I  gave  the  sovereign 
granny  tipped  me  and  said  I  was  not  to  waste, 
to  an  old,  old  man  who  looks  very  wretched, 
and  sweeps  a  crossing  close  by  here.    I  suppose 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  309 

she  could  hardly  call  that  wasting  it.  He  has  a 
long  white  beard  and  looks  venerable.  He  said 
'God  bless  you.'  Wasn't  it  sweet  of  him?  It 
made  me  feel  so  pleased  and  uncomfortable; 
you  know  the  feeling.  Most  people  give  him  a 
penny,  which  I  think  frightfully  mean.  Don't 
tell  any  one  this,  of  course,  they  would  only  say 
he  would  get  drunk,  and  on  the  contrary  he  was 
back  again  at  work  that  very  afternoon,  rather 
to  my  surprise,  looking  wretcheder  than  ever. 
So  he  probably  put  it  straight  in  the  bank,  or  gave 
it  to  his  wife  and  children.  I  do  miss  you,  darling; 
though,  of  course,  not  so  much  as  if  I  hadn't 
got  Mme.  Minart.  It's  quite  different  since  she 
came.  Cousin  Augusta  lets  us  go  somewhere 
every  day,  and  often  never  even  troubles  to  ask 
where!  Mme.  Minart  keeps  a  little  book  and 
puts  down  our  expenses,  and  if  I  happen  to  be 
hungry  she  never  minds  popping  into  Grunter's 
or  somewhere,  and  having  ices,  only  she  prefers 
brandy-cherries,  which  I  tasted  and  found  simply 
disgusting.  And  we  go  everywhere  in  hansoms, 
which,  as  you  may  suppose,  is  much  more  amus- 
ing than  going  in  the  carriage  with  Cousin  Augusta, 
who  used  to  go  shopping  or  pay  visits,  and  leave 
me  sitting  outside  for  hours. 

"We  go  to  matinees  at  the  theatre,  and  one 
day  we  went  to  the  Tower,  and  one  day  to  the 
Crystal  Palace,  which  you  would  have  simply 
loved,  as  there  is  a  charming  stall  there  where  you 


310  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

can  buy  cocoa-nut  candy.  We  had  a  long  day 
there  together.  Oh,  Lily,  she  is  such  an  angel. 
I  will  tell  you  a  secret  about  her,  but  this  is 
quite  private,  remember,  and  I  only  tell  you  that 
you  may  know  how  noble  she  is.  She  has  a  poor 
consumptive  sister  who  lives  quite  close  to  the 
Crystal  Palace,  and  a  wretched  nephew  who  is 
always  getting  into  trouble,  so  that  she  never 
even  lets  them  know  her  address,  and  she  says 
it  would  harm  her  position  if  people  knew  about 
them,  but  I  am  certain  mummie  wouldn't  mind, 
and  if  she  comes  to  live  with  us,  as  I  hope,  I 
shall  persuade  mummie  to  help  them.  I  think 
they  must  be  ungrateful  beasts  though,  from 
what  she  says;  but  she  is  fond  of  them  all  the 
same,  and  gives  all  her  money  to  keep  her  poor 
sister.    Isn't  that  being  a  real  heroine?" 

Catherine's  heart  began  to  throb  as  she  deci- 
phered these  words,  but  she  read  to  the  end  of 
the  letter  before  letting  herself  dwell  upon  their 
significance. 

For  Mme.  Minart's  full  and  free  commimica- 
tions  regarding  her  past  and  present  career  had 
included  no  mention  of  her  relations  living  close 
to  the  Crystal  Palace.  On  the  contrary,  she 
had,  more  than  once,  expressly  and  pathetically 
stated  that  she  was  alone  in  the  world. 

Catherine  took  the  forlorn  and  sobbing  Lily 
suddenly  into  her  arms. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  311 

"Oh,  my  little  Lily,"  she  murmured,  flushed 
and  trembling  with  excitement,  "if  you  have 
put  the  clue  into  our  hands  after  all!  Listen, 
darling,  I  must  dress  at  once  and  go  downstairs 
to  see  Uncle  David,  who  was  to  be  here  at  nine. 
Promise  me  that  you  will  not  say  one  word  about 
Philippa's  letter  to  any  one  but  me." 

"I  am  not  likely  to  say  a  word  to  any  one. 
I  didn't  want  to  tell  you,"  said  Lily  aggrieved; 
but  she  was  flattered  too,  that  her  letter  should 
be  so  very  important. 

David  Moore  arrived  in  Belgrave  Square  with 
military  exactitude  as  the  clock  struck  nine,  and 
was  ushered  into  the  morning  room,  where  he 
found  Catherine  awaiting  him. 

She  had  copied  out  in  her  own  clear  writing 
the  passage  in  Philippa's  letter  relating  to  Mme. 
Minart,  and  she  handed  it  to  him  without  delay, 
watching  his  expression  anxiously  as  he  read  it 
twice  rapidly  over. 

"Have  you  mentioned  this  to  any  one?" 
"Not  a  soul.     I  thought  you  would  take  it 
round  to  Scotland  Yard  yourself." 

"I  would  rather  see  Mme.  Minart  first." 
"Would  it  not  put  her  on  her  guard?  Oh, 
David,  think!"  she  said,  trembling.  "Indeed, 
she  is  a  very  artful  woman,  and  —  forgive 
me,  but  she  convinced  you  of  her  honesty  before. 
A  man  is  so  easily  taken  in,"  said  poor  Catherine; 


312  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

for,  though  she  was  ready  to  regard  with  awe 
the  superiority  of  the  masculine  intellect,  she 
could  not  divest  herself  of  the  conviction  which 
lurks  in  the  hearts  of  the  most  simple  and  candid 
of  women — that  the  cleverest  man  on  earth  is 
no  match  for  a  woman  bent  on  deception. 

"You  have  a  right  to  reproach  me,"  said 
David  calmly,  "but  she  will  not  take  me  in  twice, 
Catherine.  I  now  share  all  your  suspicions. 
She  has  deceived  me,  for  she  told  me  she  was 
quite  alone  in  the  world.  She  has  also  made 
this  false  statement  to  the  police.  I  believe  this 
letter  would  justify  her  arrest  on  suspicion;  but, 
however  that  may  be,  it  puts  a  weapon  into 
our  hands.  Now  listen" — ^he  paused,  collected 
himself,  and  spoke  briefly:  "our  object  is  to  find 
Philippa  as  quickly  as  possible,  and  if  Mme.  Mi- 
nart  knows  where  she  is,  she  can  help  us  a  great 
deal  more  effectively  than  any  one  else.  There- 
fore I  suggest  that  you  go  quietly  and  bring  her 
to  me  here,  and  leave  me  to  try  first  persuasion 
and  then  threats.  If  I  fail  this  time,  I  send  to 
Scotland  Yard,  and  hand  her  over  to  the  author- 
ities, taking  care  she  has  no  opportunity  of  warn- 
ing her  relatives  in  the  meantime.  If  I  succeed, 
I  will  not  lose  sight  of  her  for  a  moment — but 
the  fewer  people  we  take  into  our  confidence 
until  we  know" — ^his  eyes  darkened — "where 
Philippa  is  and  what  has  happened  during  this 
past  week,  the  better." 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  313 

Mme.  Minart  obeyed  Catherine's  summons 
without  delay,  and  attended  Colonel  Moore  in 
the  morning  room  with  alacrity. 

Her  appearance  was  attractive  as  usual;  her 
black  dress  the  perfection  of  neatness,  with  a 
glossy  tumed-down  collar  and  a  smart  white 
bow  to  relieve  the  darkness  of  her  brown  throat. 

Her  hat  she  would  have  described  truly  as 
trh  chic,  for  that  too  was  turned  up  at  one  side 
with  another  bewitching  bow,  which  rested  on 
her  raven  hair,  and  contrasted  with  her  bright 
dark  eyes  and  olive  complexion. 

"M.  le  Colonel  desires  to  speak  to  me?"  she 
said  very  sweetly.  "I  am  always  at  the  service 
of  M.  le  Colonel.  I  was  about  to  walk  round 
the  square  with  Miladi's  maid,  to  exercise  Miladi's 
pug.  You  know,  monsieur,  that  I  go  not  any- 
where alone?  No.  There  is  an  espionage — sur- 
veillance. I  am  suspected  of  I  know  not  what. 
Not  by  Monsieur  le  Colonel,  bien  entendu,  but  by 
others." 

"That  is  true,"  said  David  sternly.  "When 
others  suspected  you,  I  believed." 

"It  was  like  you,"  she  sighed.  "Do  you  think 
I  am  insensible?     Believe  me,  I  am  grateful." 

She  stole  a  glance  at  his  face,  but  the  gloom 
of  his  expression  frightened  her.  She  cast  down 
her  eyes  and  waited. 

* '  How  much  gratitude  you  felt  for  my  credulity 
I  cannot  tell,  but  that  you  have  deceived  me  I 


314  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

have  just  learnt,"  said  David.  "I  do  not  wonder, 
madame,  that  you  cannot  look  me  in  the  face." 

Mme.  Minart  moved  uneasily,  but  she  did  not 
raise  her  eyes. 

"There  may  be  more  reasons  than  one,"  she 
murmured,  half  softly,  half  defiantly,  "why 
a  woman  should  not  care  to — to  look  Colonel 
Moore  in  the  face." 

It  was  now  David's  turn  to  feel  uneasy;  for 
he  recalled  Mrs.  Ralt's  observations,  and  became 
exceedingly  embarrassed  at  the  recollection. 

"There  can  be  no  good  reason  but  one,"  he 
said  rather  hurriedly.  "And  I  prefer  to  believe 
that  one.  It  is  that  Mme.  Minart  is  ashamed 
to  have  deceived  a  friend." 

"A  friend!  Are  you  my  friend?"  Mme.  Mi- 
nart's  voice  was  reproachful  though  sweet. 

"Have  I  not  proved  myself  a  friend?"  said 
David,  reddening.  "You  said  just  now  that 
when  others  suspected  you,  I  did  not." 

"Ah,  yes;  that  is  true,"  she  sighed.  "But 
you  are  noble — generous."  Her  eyes  no  longer 
avoided  him,  but  softened  and  brightened  with 
a  very  eloquent  expression  of  feeling;  the  colour 
glowed  in  her  olive  face,  and  she  looked  exceed- 
ingly handsome. 

"If  you  thought  so,  why  did  you  not  trust  me?" 

"I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  "  she  said,  in 
some  agitation.     "Of  what  do  you  suspect  me?" 

"I  do  not  suspect,  I  know.    You  told  me  you 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  315 

were  alone  in  the  world,  without  relatives,  without 
family.  And  it  was  not  true.  You  have  a  sister — 
a  nephew — whom  you  help,  who  are,  at  all  events, 
partly  dependent  upon  you — ^who  live  close  to 
you  here  in  London." 

Mme.  Minart  turned  white.  There  was  a  pause, 
during  which  David  regarded  her  sternly;  then 
she  spoke,  but  with  difficulty,  as  though  her  lips 
were  dry. 

"And  if  I  have — if  I  have  denied  the  existence 
of  these  miserables  for  their  own  sakes — that 
they  might  not  be  mixed  up  in  this  affair — what 
of  that?"  she  said  faintly. 

"That  you  have  done — ^whatever  you  have 
done — for  their  sakes  I  am  willing  to  believe," 
said  David  with  quick  compassion.  "Their  de- 
pendence upon  you  supplies  the  motive.  You 
wanted  money.  There  could  be  no  other  reason. 
Mme.  Minart,  what  have  you  done  with  Philippa? " 

"You  desire  me  to  accuse  myself  that  you 
may  hand  me  over  to  the  police — to  the  prison," 
she  said  with  angry  tears. 

"Madame,"  said  David  curtly,  "I  am  very 
little  used  to  dealing  with  blackmailers.  If  you 
were  a  man  I  would  have  the  truth  out  of  you 
first,  and  then  hand  you  over  to  the  police  without 
a  moment's  hesitation.  But  you  are  a  woman, 
and,  rightly  or  wrongly,  I  cannot  bring  myself 
to  be  harsh  to  a  woman." 

She  raised  her  dark  eyes  at  this  and  looked  at 


316  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

him  through  her  tears;  perhaps  she  thought  the 
pleading  sweetness  of  that  look  might  soften  him 
further  yet.  She  knew  that  she  was  handsome, 
and  she  had  discovered  that  the  Colonel  was 
susceptible  to  beauty  and  humility. 

Whether  this  were  so  or  not,  David  drew  a  step 
closer  to  her  side  and  spoke  more  gently. 

"Why  did  you  not  tell  me  the  truth  the  other 
day,  and  save  us  all  these  days  of  suspense  and 
misery?  If  you  had  told  me  you  were  in  trouble 
I  would  have  helped  you." 

"You  would  have  helped  me?"  she  said  almost 
inaudibly.    "How  could  I  know  that?" 

"I  am  not  a  rich  man,"  said  David,  "but  I 
have  enough  and  to  spare — ^to  help  a  woman  who 
is  in  trouble." 

"Monsieur,"  she  said  indignantly,  "what  would 
you  have  thought  if  I  had  asked  you  for  money?" 

David  looked  at  her  steadily.  "No  evil — and 
you  know  it.  You,  who  tell  me  you  are  a  judge 
of  character,  know  it  perfectly." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  drooping  her  head,  "you  are 
right,  I  know  it." 

Then  she  sat  still  and  cried,  putting  up  her 
slender  gloved  hands  to  hide  her  face. 

Like  most  men,  David  disliked  exceedingly  the 
sight  of  a  woman's  tears.  He  stood  for  a  moment 
regarding  Mme.  Minart  impatiently,  and  wonder- 
ing how  he  should  proceed.  It  was  now  almost 
certain  that  the  existence  of  her  relatives  had 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  317 

everything  to  do  with  the  disappearance  of  Phil- 
ippa,and  that  their  discovery,  when  this  clue  should 
be  placed  in  the  hands  of  the  police,  was  only  a 
question  of  time.  But  he  felt  the  advisability 
of  conciliating  the  Frenchwoman,  and  persuad- 
ing her  if  possible  to  tell  him  the  truth  at  once. 
The  mention  of  the  nephew  had  filled  David 
with  vague  anxiety,  and  not  a  little  anger.  What 
had  happened  to  Philippa?  He  felt  that  if  he 
could,  with  Mme.  Minart's  aid,  bring  her  home 
at  once,  secretly  and  safely,  without  further 
police  intervention,  it  would  save  poor  Catherine 
something — a  great  deal. 

He  said  "Poor  Catherine!"  to  himself,  scarcely 
daring  to  think  of  Philippa  at  all;  for  the  bare 
thought  of  the  woman-child — of  her  beauty  and 
helplessness — the  victim  of  blackmailers — a  pris- 
oner or  worse — drove  him  to  fury,  and  of  what 
avail  was  fury  now? 

Mme.  Minart  must  have  divined  something  of 
his  feelings  when  she  glanced  suddenly  up,  and 
saw  his  dark  face  lowering  over  her. 

"What  have  you  done  with  the  child?"  said 
David,  answering  the  look  with  anger  in  his 
voice. 

"Ah,  monsieur,"  she  said,  putting  up  her 
hand,  "do  not  take  that  tone.  Threats  are  noth- 
ing to  me — ^nothing.  But  when  you  speak  gently 
to  me — when  you  talk  of  being  my  friend — or 
helping  me,"  she  sobbed,  "it  is  then  I  can  deny 


318  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

you  nothing.  I  am  a  fool,  I  know  it.  But  a 
woman  is  sometimes  the  slave  of  her  feelings, 
of  her  impulses." 

"Help  me  now,"  he  said,  "and  I  swear  that 
whatever  you  have  done  I  will  stand  your  friend. 
Look  at  me  and  believe  me." 

"Believe  you!"  she  said  passionately.  "Could 
I  doubt  you  f  You  said  truly  that  I  was  too 
good  a  judge  of  human  nature." 

"Take  me  to  Philippa." 

"Wait — wait — ^let  me  think."  She  put  her 
hand  to  her  forehead,  but  he  took  it  and  held  it. 

"I  do  not  want  you  to  think.  To  think  means 
with  you  to  plot  and  scheme  and  plan,"  he  said 
imperiously.  "Look  at  me,  and  tell  me  now,  this 
moment,  the  truth." 

"You  will  stand  my  friend?" 

"I  have  said  so." 

"What  does  that  mean?" 

"That  I  will  help  you  to  the  best  of  my  power 
to  escape  punishment  for  what  you  have  done, 
if  you  will  help  me  at  once  to  bring  Philippa,  safe 
and  sound,  home  to  her  mother — that  I  will  give 
you  a  sum  of  money — what  you  want,  in  reason 
— I  suppose  it  is  money  you  want " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  want  money;  but  there  is  some- 
thing dearer  to  a  woman  than  money.  You  de- 
spise me,"  she  sobbed. 

"No,  no,"  said  David,  "I  will  believe  you 
were  tempted  by  them." 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  3ld 

"I  was  tempted,  but  not  as  you  think.  It  was 
my  plan,  my  scheme;  they  are  incapable — 
helpless — they  have  no  brains.  Oh,  what  am  I 
saying?  I  am  betraying  myself  with  every  word. 
I  will  tell  you  nothing,  nothing  here,  where  every 
one  is  my  enemy,  or  a  spy  on  me.  If  you  are 
my  friend,  take  me  away  from  this  place,  and  I 
will  tell  you  all." 

"You  shall  come  away  at  once,"  said  David, 
and  he  scrawled  a  hasty  line  in  his  pocket-book. 
"I  will  leave  a  message  for  her  mother." 

"No,  no!  I  trust  no  woman.  What  are  you 
writing?"  she  said,  sobbing  and  suspicious. 

He  held  it  up  to  her  without  a  word. 

"Do  not  take  any  one  into  your  confidence.  I 
am  following  up  this  clue  with  every  hope  of  conp- 
plete  success.  Await  news.  May  possibly  tele- 
phone.''' 

'' Je  vous  demande  pardon,  monsieur y**  said 
Mme.  Minart  humbly. 

He  gave  her  no  time  to  reflect  or  resist  fur- 
ther, but  rang  the  bell  and  desired  Pilkington 
to  carry  the  note,  which  he  sealed,  to  Catherine, 
and  then  he  left  the  house  with  Mme.  Minart, 
who  was  still  visibly  agitated. 

In  the  square  he  recognised  the  detective  who 
was  watching  the  house,  and  said  a  word  to  him. 
The  man  nodded  and  touched  his  cap. 

"What  did  you  say  to  that  man?" 

"Do  you  doubt  me  again?     I  told  him  not 


320  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

to  leave  his  post — that  I  wotild  be  responsible 
for  you." 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"To  Victoria  Station." 

"You  know  where  she  is?  Then  why — ^why 
did  you  ask  my  help?"  she  said  faintly. 

"I  do  not  know  the  exact  address,"  said 
David  calmly. 

She  took  a  slip  of  paper  from  her  purse  and 
handed  it  to  him, 

"You  will  see  that  I  trust  you." 

"Is  this  your  sister's  house?" 

"It  is  called  hers." 

"Is  Philippa  with  her?" 

"Yes,  yes." 

"And  safe— well?" 

"You  think  only  of  her,"  said  Mme.  Minart, 
bursting  into  fresh  tears,  "She  is  strong  as  a 
lion.  How  should  her  health  have  suffered  in 
one  short  week?  My  sister  is  not  a  monster." 

She  sobbed  so  violently  that  the  passers-by 
turned  their  heads  and  looked  indignantly  at 
David. 

"For  Heaven's  sake  control  yourself.  I  will 
ask  you  no  more  questions,"  he  said  impatiently. 

"I  will  tell  you  all — all  another  time,  but  not 
now.  Have  pity  on  me  now,"  she  sobbed;  "you 
will  be  with  her,  monsieur,  in  an  hour.  What 
more  can  you  ask?" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

The  cab  passed  rows  and  rows  of  suburban  villas, 
standing  each  in  its  own  narrow  plot  of  ground; 
some  old,  some  newly  built,  some  unfinished 
and  surrounded  by  scaffolding  and  stacks  of 
bricks  and  heaps  of  mortar;  then  came  eligible 
building  sites,  already  partitioned  off  with  palings, 
each  to  be  let  or  sold,  and  finally  a  shady  road, 
where  some  half-dozen  shabby  houses  of  a  much 
earlier  date  stood,  each  in  its  own  garden,  in  the 
shelter  of  well-grown  trees  and  screened  by  tall 
straggling  hedges  and  high  walls  of  yellow  brick. 

Before  the  gate  of  the  last  house  the  driver 
stopped,  and,  jumping  from  his  box,  opened  the 
door. 

"I  hope  you'll  give  me  a  job  back,  sir?"  he 
said  civilly,  to  David;  "this  is  the  other  end  of 
nowhere;  you  ought  to  have  gone  to  the  low- 
level  station  to  begin  with " 

"All  right,"  said  David;   "wait  here." 

An  overgrown  path  led  past  tangled  borders, 
where  roses  strove  with  nettles,  and  lilies  were 
choked  with  bindweed. 

"We  have  no  gardener,"  said  Mme.  Minart, 

31  32X 


322  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

in  subdued  tones  of  apology  as  they  reached  the 
front  door. 

Crooked  and  broken  blinds  flapped  against 
windows  cracked,  dirty,  and  curtainless;  the 
paint  had  long  ago  blistered  or  peeled  off  the 
woodwork. 

"It  is  so  cheap — they  let  us  have  it  for  almost 
nothing,"  she  faltered,  as  though  she  were  looking 
at  the  place  anew  with  his  eyes;  "the  last  years 
of  the  lease — and  it  is  to  be  pulled  down.  We 
have  paid  no  attention  to  the  front  of  the  house, 
it  is  beyond  our  power  to  mend — and  it  faces 
north." 

David  tugged  at  a  rusty  handle  which  responded 
with  the  echoing  clang  of  a  bell  rung  in  an  empty 
house. 

"Is  there  any  one  here?"  he  said;  "it  looks 
as  though  no  one  were  here."  His  glance  was 
so  full  of  gloomy  suspicion  that  she  quailed,  and 
he  took  her  suddenly  by  the  arm. 

"Are  you  deceiving  me  again?  Are  you  playing 
me  some  trick?   If  you  are " 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  trembling.  "Ah,  monsieur, 
believe  me,  I  cannot  bear  your  anger.  They  are 
here,  indeed  they  are  here.  But  they  live  on  the 
other  side,  in  only  one  or  two  rooms.  We  have 
so  little  furniture;  but  the  garden  at  the  back  is 
good  for  my  sister,  who  is  ill.  Come  round  to  the 
other  side.  You  have  no  need  to  hold  me  thus. 
How  could  I  get  away  from  you,  and  did  I  not 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  323 

bring  you  here  myself?"  she  said  with  a  laugh 
that  was  half  a  sob. 

But  he  held  her,  nevertheless — so  full  of  doubt 
and  anger  that  he  scarce  knew  that  he  did  so — 
as  they  went  round  to  the  side  of  the  house, 
where  a  green  door  in  a  wall  shut  off  the  front 
drive  from  the  garden.  She  sought  and  found 
a  rusty  key  which  was  hidden  in  a  convenient 
nook,  unlocked  and  pushed  open  the  creaking 
door. 

Once  on  the  south  side  of  the  house  they  had 
no  need  to  ring,  for  a  French  window  stood  open 
under  a  wooden  balcony ;  they  entered  an  empty 
room  which  had  once  evidently  been  the  drawing- 
room  of  the  villa,  for  the  marble  mantelpiece 
was  elegantly  carved,  and  the  ceiling  wreathed 
with  painted  flowers. 

Mme.  Minart  hurried  him  into  the  narrow 
hall  and  gave  a  tremulous  call. 

"Eugenie!" 

The  name  echoed  forlornly  up  the  carpetless 
stair. 

She  opened  the  opposite  door. 

The  room  which  now  offered  itself  to  their 
view  was  furnished  plainly  as  a  living-room.  There 
was  a  small  highly  polished  cooking  stove,  an 
easy  chair,  and  a  round  table  with  a  cloth. 

It  was  spotlessly  clean  and  in  perfect  order, 
but  had  the  air  of  not  having  been  recently  used, 
and  something  in  its  aspect  appeared  to  strike 


324  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

Mme.  Minart  with  uneasiness.  She  glanced 
around,  as  though  missing  familiar  objects. 

"It  looks  as  though  some  one  had  left.  As  if 
things  had  been  folded  up  and  put  away,"  said 
David. 

"How  can  she  have  left?  I  tell  you  she  is  ill. 
It  is  for  that  I  brought  her  here.  For  the  air;  for 
the  garden,"  said  Mme.  Minart.  "She  does  not 
stir  from  this  place — ^my  sister.  She  must  be 
upstairs." 

She  hurried  out,  and  David,  following,  caught 
sight  of  a  letter  conspicuously  placed. 

He  took  it  up  and  held  it  out. 

"This  is  addressed  to  you." 

Simultaneously  Mme.  Minart  perceived  in  the 
little  dark  vestibule  a  small  heap  of  letters  and 
advertisements,  which  lay  upon  the  floor  below 
the  slit  in  the  door  where  a  letter-box  should 
have  been. 

She  gathered  them  up  in  a  dazed  way,  and 
brought  them  to  the  light,  with  a  kind  of  stifled 
exclamation. 

"I  do  not  understand,"  she  said;  "wait  a 
moment,  wait  a  moment.  But  this  is  the  letter  I 
sent  her,  and  it  has  not  been  opened.  What 
has  happened?" 

"Read  this  one  and  see,"  said  David,  im- 
patiently, and  he  gave  her  the  note  addressed  to 
herself. 

She  tore  open  the  envelope,  took  out  a  half- 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  325 

sheet  of  foreign  note-paper,  covered  with  fine 
French  writing. 

When  she  had  read  it,  every  vestige  of  colour 
faded  from  her  face  and  lips;  she  looked  at  him 
with  horror  unspeakable  in  her  eyes. 

''Bon  Dieu!  qu'est-ce  que  j'ai  fait,  qu'est-ce  que 
fat  fait  ?  "  she  muttered. 

"What  have  you  done?"  cried  David,  for  she 
stood  motionless,  as  though  struck  with  horror. 
"For  God's  sake  tell  me  the  worst  and  be  done 
with  it.  Where  have  they  taken  her?  What  has 
happened  to  her?" 

"They — they  have  not  taken  her,"  said  Mme. 
Minart,  with  dry  lips;  "she — she  brought  them  a 
letter — from  me — that  morning.  The  letter  told 
my  sister  to — to  detain  her — that  I  was  coming 
that  day,  in  a  few  hours.  And  my  sister  did  not 
wait — she  did  not  wait,"  screamed  Mme.  Minart; 
"she  went  away  and  never  got  my  letter  saying 
I  was  not  coming.  Oh,  that  I  should  have  trusted 
to  a  fool — a  coward!" 

"What  do  I  care  about  your  sister — where 
is  Philippa?"  he  said. 

She  put  the  letter  into  his  hand  and  ran  to  the 
staircase. 

"Let  me  go  first.  Oh,  my  God!  let  me  go 
first — ^if  she  is — there,"  gasped  Mme.  Minart. 
"It  will  kill  me — and  I  deserve — I  deserve — to 
die." 

David  glanced  at  the  scrawl  in  his  hand,  and 


326  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

the  glance  told  him  nothing.  He  did  not  wait 
to  decipher  it,  but  thrust  it  into  his  pocket,  and 
followed  Mme.  Minart  as  she  hurried,  without 
pausing  to  look  back,  to  the  third  or  attic  floor 
of  the  villa. 

Here  was  a  single  door  facing  the  stairs,  and 
before  it  she  paused,  and  pointed  out  to  him  with 
a  ghastly  expression  that  it  was  heavily  bolted 
upon  the  outside. 

She  put  her  hand  upon  the  bolt,  and  her  strength 
suddenly  failed  her;  she  leant  against  the  wall, 
fainting,  and  it  was  David  who  drew  back  the 
bolt. 

"Is  any  one  here?"  he  said,  and  pushing  open 
the  door,  entered. 

The  room  was  a  large,  bare  attic,  with  a  sloping 
roof  and  a  barred  opaque  skylight.  Opposite 
him  a  door,  partly  open,  displaying  a  small 
bath-room;  in  the  comer  next  that  door  stood  a 
low  narrow  bed,  and  beside  the  bed,  a  chair, 
holding  a  water- jug  and  an  empty  tumbler. 

David's  heart  seemed  to  contract,  and  for  a 
brief  second  a  mist  of  horror  darkened  his  eyes. 

"A  blue  dress  and  a  black  straw  hat,"  he 
found  himself  muttering — "a  blue  dress  and  a 
black  straw  hat.    Oh,  Catherine — Catherine " 

The  hat  lay  on  the  table,  and  on  the  bed  a  figure 
in  a  blue  dress — motionless,  as  though  sleeping. 
The  clearly  cut  face  on  the  pillow,  so  wasted  as 
to  be  almost  unrecognisable,  was  Philippa's  face. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  327 

David  turned  and  looked  at  Mme.  Minart  as 
she  stood  shivering  in  the  doorway,  and  at  his 
look  she  cowered  afresh  and  fell  upon  her  knees, 
sobbing  violently. 

With  stem  set  face  he  crossed  the  room  and 
bent  over  the  motionless  figure. 

She  saw  him  start,  and  almost  screamed  aloud, 
but  restrained  herself  in  terror;  for  Philippa's 
great  blue  eyes  opened,  and  her  voice  uttered 
David's  name  faintly,  but  quite  clearly. 

"Yes,  Philippa;  yes,  my  darling,"  he  said, 
in  a  voice  that  trembled  with  all  the  tenderness 
and  wrath  and  pity  that  was  pent  up  in  his  great 
heart.  "It  is  all  right  now.  I  am  here.  I  have 
come  to  take  care  of  you." 

He  knelt  by  the  bed,  and  took  the  transparent 
hand.    She  seemd  to  smile,  and  closed  her  eyes. 

There  was  not  a  tinge  of  colour  in  the  sunken 
face;  the  hollows  of  the  eyes  were  enormously 
enlarged,  the  features  pinched  and  sharpened — 
her  deathly  aspect  filled  him  with  terror. 

Mme.  Minart  uttered  a  suppressed  call,  and  Da- 
vid rose  from  his  knees  and  went  to  the  doorway. 

"For  God's  sake  pull  yourself  together,"  he 
whispered,  passionately;  "fetch  me  some  brandy 
and  send  the  cabman  for  a  doctor.  Don't  lose  a 
minute.  I  can't  leave  her.  It's  your  best  chance 
to  undo  the  work  you've  done." 

"I  never  meant  it — not  this — ^not  this,"  gasped 
Mme.  Minart,  but  her  white  despair  had  given 


328  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

place  to  hope,  and  her  native  energy  shone 
through  her  tears.  "I  will  go — I  will  fly — but 
listen — she  is  alive,  and  though  she  has  not  eaten 
all  these  days,  there  has  been  water — it  is  laid 
on — ^there — one  can  live  many  days  with  water, 
thank  God.  Look,  monsieur,  she  must  not  see 
me,  she  must  not  have  any  emotion.  It  is  food — 
milk  that  she  wants — ^not  the  doctor.  Oh,  my 
God!  wait  but  a  moment,  I  will  bring  you  milk, 
brandy — you  may  trust  me  now.  I  would  die  to 
bring  her  back  to  life." 

She  sped  with  noiseless  haste  downstairs,  and 
a  moment  later  she  had  despatched  the  cabman 
in  one  direction,  while  she  herself  ran  in  another 
to  the  back  door  of  the  nearest  house,  and  begged 
a  little  milk  and  other  necessaries. 

In  less  than  five  minutes  she  stood  again, 
breathless,  on  the  threshold  of  the  attic,  with  a 
glass  of  milk  and  a  flask  of  brandy  in  her  hands, 
some  bread,  and  a  teaspoon. 

"Give  her  no  more,  no  more  than  a  spoonful,  a 
very  little.  And  then — wait — wait, ' '  she  whispered 
vehemently,  and  wrung  her  hands  as  he  took  it 
across  to  the  bedside.  "No  bread  yet — I  am 
afraid.  Oh,  that  I  might  do  it  myself;  but  I 
dare  not.  The  sight  of  me  might  kill  her  if  she 
knows;  yet  what  can  a  man  do  for  her — and  I 
here,  who  know  all  that  should  be  done." 

But  David  was  by  no  means  so  destitute  of 
nursing   experience   as   she   had   imagined,    and 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  329 

when  she  had  watched  him  administer  a  teaspoon- 
ful  of  the  nourishment,  she  grew  calmer,  and, 
bethinking  herself,  ran  downstairs  again, 

David  sat  beside  Philippa,  watching  the  death- 
like face,  and  praying  dumbly  that  the  doctor 
would  hasten  his  coming;  for  he  could  hardly 
feel  any  pulse  at  all  in  the  little  wasted  wrist  he 
held. 

At  intervals  he  administered  a  teaspoonful 
of  the  milk  and  brandy,  and  hoped  that  some 
was  swallowed;  but  he  could  discern  no  motion 
of  the  throat,  and  she  seemed  unconscious  or 
sleeping. 

Once  the  blue  eyes  opened  again  and  were 
fixed  in  wonder  upon  his  face.  The  perfect  calm 
of  the  expression  made  him  at  one  moment  hope- 
ful, at  another  fearful. 

Was  it  only  that  she  was  relieved  to  know  that 
help  had  come,  or  was  she  resigned  to  death? 

He  forced  himself  to  smile  reassuringly  in  return 
for  that  wondering  look;  but  this  time  she  gave 
no  answering  smile,  only  sank  away,  as  it  were, 
into  another  death-like  slumber. 

He  had  time  for  many  thoughts  as  he  sat 
there,  holding  her  hand  in  his;  not  daring  to 
move,  forced  to  inaction,  while  he  longed  fever- 
ishly to  be  despatching  messengers  hither  and 
thither,  to  hasten  the  coming  of  help,  of  the 
doctor,  of  her  mother. 

But  he  was  obliged  to  trust  all  to  the  woman 


330  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

who  had  brought  Philippa,  whether  of  fell  design 
or  not,  to  this  pass;  and  to  remain  at  his  post 
in  silence  through  the  long  bright  hours  of  the 
summer  morning. 

He  had  time  for  many  thoughts. 

He  saw,  as  in  a  vision,  the  beautiful  girl, 
scarcely  more  than  a  child,  as  he  had  seen  her 
first  on  the  cedar-shadowed  lawn  of  the  old- 
fashioned  Devonshire  garden,  and  then,  again, 
upon  the  sea-shore,  leaning  against  the  rocks 
with  her  white  feet  lapped  by  the  blue  water, 
and  her  bright  hair  blowing  in  the  wind.  He 
thought  of  the  half  shy,  half  stately  maiden, 
moving  later  through  the  London  ball-room, 
distinguished  by  her  noble  features  and  bearing, 
and  by  that  unmistakable  bloom  of  country 
freshness.  "Like  a  rose,"  thought  David,  re- 
flecting that  this  ancient  simile  was  after  all 
the  best. 

And  now  the  motionless,  waxen  face  lay  on  the 
pillow,  seeming  that  of  an  older  woman  alto- 
gether than  the  maiden  Philippa;  so  sunken,  so 
changed  was  its  outline,  so  sharply  prominent 
the   ivory   features. 

What  days  and  nights  of  lonely  anguish  and 
suffering  had  this  child  lived  through,  to  be 
changed  thus?   He  dared  not  think. 

As  David  sat  there  the  very  aspect  of  the  room 
which  had  been  Philippa's  prison  told  him  a 
story  that  filled  him  with  unavailing  fury,  and 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  331 

brought  tears  of  mingled  rage  and  pity  to  his 
eyes. 

It  was  almost  an  empty  room,  containing  only 
a  cheap  washstand,  a  chair  or  two,  a  few  pegs 
driven  into  the  wall,  and  the  deal  table  whereon 
lay  the  hat  which  had  been  described  in  so  many 
useless  advertisements.  In  the  wall  a  little 
square  opening  showed  a  small  box-lift,  just 
large  enough  to  hold  a  ver>^  small  tray ;  but  though 
the  tray  was  there,  it  was  empty. 

There  was  a  fireplace,  but  no  fire-irons.  One 
of  the  pegs  had  been  worked  out  of  its  place,  and 
there  were  marks  round  the  barred  skylight 
which  showed  that  Philippa  had  made  frantic 
unavailing  efforts  to  force  it  open;  the  broken 
peg  lay  on  the  floor  beneath.  The  leg  of  a  chair 
had  been  used  as  a  hammer,  and  the  stout  door 
of  the  attic  was  battered  all  over  with  marks ;  the 
poor  child  had  made  some  efforts  to  break  out 
of  her  prison  before  she  grew  too  weak  or  too 
hopeless. 

He  tried  to  banish  the  vision  which  would 
rise  before  him  of  Philippa  alone,  crying,  praying, 
starving,  throughout  that  long  and  terrible  week; 
of  hope  giving  place  to  despair;  of  her  dragging 
herself  from  her  bed  to  fill  the  water-jug  for  the 
last  time,  and  sinking  back  at  last  resigned  to 
die;  too  weak,  too  exhausted  to  struggle  further, 
her  face  so  plainly  betrayed  that  she  had  reached 
that  final  stage  of  meekness. 


332  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

The  thought  was  so  unbearable  that  he  started 
to  his  feet,  feehng  the  silence  and  waiting  intol- 
erable, when  her  life  was  trembling  in  the  balance. 

"Cousin  David." 

"Philippa,  my  little  Philippa.  Oh,  thank 
God!    your  voice  sounds  stronger." 

"Don't  go,"  she  said  feebly,  and  tried  to  lift 
her  hand. 

"I  am  not  going,  I  will  never  leave  you," 
said  David,  almost  incoherent  between  joy  and 
anxiety.  He  kissed  the  little  hand,  and  about 
his  heart  there  crept  a  sudden  warmth  and  passion 
of  tenderness  for  the  helpless  creature  whom 
it  had  been  given  to  him  to  rescue  and  succour, 
and  who  seemed  in  turn  to  cling  to  him. 

"Try — try  to  swallow  a  little  milk,  Philippa. 
There,  there.  Why,  that  is  right  and  brave,  my 
darling.  You've  taken  the  whole  spoonful,  and 
another.  Wait  only  one  moment,  we  mustn't 
go  too  fast." 

He  trembled  with  hope,  perceiving  that  the 
hollow  eyes  were  fixed  eagerly  upon  the  bread. 
There  was  a  little  sound  outside,  and  the  frail 
fingers  he  held  seemed  to  tighten  their  hold. 

"It  is  the  doctor  at  last,"  said  David,  in  great 
relief.    "You  will  not  mind,  Philippa?" 

But  the  blue  eyes  were  turned  to  the  door, 
and  it  was  not  the  doctor  who  came  softly  into 
the  room,  but  Catherine,  in  her  black  gown, 
with  her  pale  face  composed  and  smiling. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  333 

She  was  carrying  a  cup  and  tray,  which  she 
put  down  on  the  Httle  table,  on  her  way  to 
PhiHppa's  bedside. 

"Mamma,"  said  PhiHppa. 

'I  am  here,  my  darling!" 

David  held  his  breath,  terrified  of  the  possible 
effects  of  emotion  upon  Philippa  in  her  weakness; 
but  to  his  relief  she  displayed  none,  and  seemed 
to  take  her  mother's  entry  as  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world,  and  Catherine  was  so  guarded 
or  had  been  so  carefully  prepared  that  she  be- 
trayed no  sign  of  the  shock  that  her  child's 
appearance  must  have  given. 

David  remembered  with  some  shame  that  he 
had  thought  indulgently  of  Catherine's  weakness 
and  softness  of  character. 

There  was  no  weakness  to  be  discerned  in  the 
woman  whose  arm  at  present  supported  her 
child,  and  whose  steady  hand  administered  nour- 
ishment from  the  cup  she  bade  him  hold.  There 
was  no  doubt  now  of  the  eagerness  with  which 
it  was  swallowed. 

"No  more  for  the  present,"  said  Catherine, 
beneath  her  breath,  and  she  signed  to  him  to 
remove  the  cup. 

He  saw  Philippa  fall  asleep  more  naturally 
in  her  mother's  soft  arms,  before  he  stole  away 
in  obedience  to  another  look  from  Catherine, 
which  seemed  to  bid  him  leave  her  alone  with 
her  child. 


334  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"She  won't  want  me  any  more,  now,"  he 
thought,  sadly,  and  then  was  surprised  at  his 
own  sadness ;  for  how  was  it  possible  that  Philippa 
should  want  him,  comparatively  a  stranger  as  he 
was,  now  that  he/  mother  was  by  her  side  ? 


CHAPTER  XIX 

Outside  the  door  of  the  attic  David  found  a  lit- 
tle valise  and  handbag,  and  a  pile  of  clean  warm 
linen  and  blankets  beside  a  small  table  covered 
with  necessaries  for  a  sick-room ;  even  to  a  bunch 
of  roses,  evidently  gathered  from  the  neglected 
garden  and  arranged  in  a  glass  of  water.  He 
realised  that  Mme.  Minart  had  been  working 
while  he  had  been  watching. 

The  thought  of  her  brought  a  frown  to  his 
brow  as  he  descended. 

He  found  her  in  the  living-room,  bending  over 
a  bubbling  saucepan  on  the  cooking-stove. 

A  small  fire  was  burning,  the  kettle  was  singing, 
and  the  window  stood  wide-open  to  the  brightness 
of  the  summer  day. 

Mme.  Minart  had  removed  her  outdoor  things 
and  donned  a  snowy  apron.  She  looked  so 
orderly,  so  trim,  so  busy,  that  it  was  not  possible 
to  think  of  her  as  a  criminal;  but  when  she  per- 
ceived David's  tall  figure  in  the  doorway,  she 
uttered  a  little  cry  and  clasped  her  hands. 

"She  is  better!  I  watched  through  the  door; 
she  took  the  warm  egg  and  milk  I  had  prepared. 

335 


336  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

She  will  recover,  monsieur;  believe  me,  she  will 
recover." 

"By  God's  grace,"  said  David,  roughly.  "Did 
you  send  for  the  doctor,  as  I  bade  you?" 

"I  have  sent.  But  I  sent  first  for  her  mother," 
said  Mme.  Minart,  breathlessly.  "What  could  the 
doctor  do  more  than  we  have  done?  I  bade  the 
cabman  telephone.  I  wrote  it  down  who  he  was 
to  ask  for,  and  the  message,  and  gave  him  a 
sovereign.  He  had  seemed  stupid,  but  when  he 
saw  the  gold  he  proved  quick  and  willing.  He 
telephoned  in  your  name,  and  it  was  Philippa's 
mother  who  answered;  she  was  waiting  as  you 
bade.  He  told  her  the  child  had  been  found, 
and  was  ill;  that  she  was  to  say  nothing  to  any 
one,  but  to  take  your  motor  and  come.  I  prom- 
ised him  more  money  if  he  should  be  discreet 
and  quick.  He  brought  me  all  I  wanted,  and 
then  he  went  for  the  doctor,  who  was  out;  then 
to  another  further  ofif,  and  so  on.  At  last  we 
have  a  message  one  is  coming.  When  Lady 
Adelstane  came,  I  told  her — she  is  very  quick, 
she  understood.  I  fell  on  my  knees  and  told  her," 
said  Mme.  Minart,  suppressing  a  sob.  "She  sent 
the  motor  back  to  town  to  fetch  the  maid.  Roper, 
and  bade  the  chauffeur  hold  his  tongue.  The 
cabman  had  already  got  most  of  the  things  that 
are  wanted." 

"You  thought  of  everything,"  he  said,  mo- 
mentarily softened. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  337 

"Everything  that  could  help  to  undo — what 
I  had  done — in  my  folly  and  senselessness,"  she 
said  trembling.      "You  have   read  my  letter?" 

"What  letter?  How  do  you  suppose  I  should 
have  time  to  think  of  your  letters,  at  such  a 
moment? " 

"You  must,  then,  believe  that  I  am  a  monster," 
she  said,  bursting  into  tears.  "Monsieur,  I  have 
been  foolish  and  wicked.  I  was  tempted  as  you 
said,  but  not  to  this.  Believe  me,  you  are  not 
more  filled  with  horror,  with  grief,  than  I." 

"I  am  in  no  mood  to  listen  to  your  self- 
reproaches  after  what  I  have  seen  upstairs," 
he  said  sternly. 

His  expression  recalled  the  look  he  had  given 
her  after  the  first  shock  of  beholding  Philippa; 
and  she  trembled  now  as  she  had  trembled  then, 
but  without  losing  her  self-command. 

"Yet  you  promised  to  stand  my  friend,"  she 
said,  faintly. 

"I  said  I  would  stand  your  friend,"  said  David, 
gloomily,  "if  you  brought  me  to  her,  and  by 
God's  grace  you  did  so — just  in  time.  But  if  I 
had  known  what  you  had  done " 

"But  I  never  meant  to  do  it.  Ah,  can't  you 
see  it  was  a  mistake — a  dreadful  mistake?"  she 
said,  white  to  the  lips,  as  she  stood  beside  the 
table  facing  him. 

"Aye,  a  mistake  that,  for  aught  we  know  yet. 
may  cost  her  life,"  he  said  bitterly,  "and  might 


338  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

have  cost  her  reason.  Who  knows  how  far  she 
will  ever  be  herself  again,  if  she  recovers  at  all?" 

"She  will  recover,  monsieur — she  will  recover. 
And  it  is  not  mercy  I  ask,  but  justice.  I  deserve 
all  you  can  desire  to  inflict  upon  me,"  she  said 
with  a  certain  dignity.  "But  my  sister's  letter 
will  prove  to  you  that,  though  I  am  guilty,  I  am 
not  so  guilty  as  you  believe." 

David  pulled  the  letter  out  of  his  pocket,  but 
her  impatience  caused  her  to  explain  the  contents 
more  quickly  than  he  could  decipher  the  faint 
flourishing  scratches  of  the  writing. 

"Monsieur,  it  is  from  my  sister;  she  is  a  widow, 
ill,  weak,  poor — and  her  son  is  a  vaurien.  Always 
since  his  birth  has  he  been  a  trouble  and  expense. 
But  they  are  all  I  have  in  the  world — which 
will  explain — I  do  what  I  can.  Always  he  lost 
his  situation  in  France;  his  father's  family,  who 
are  also  poor,  will  do  no  more  for  him.  At  last 
I  found  something  in  London "  She  hesi- 
tated and  drooped  her  head.  "Of  what  matter 
if  I  tell  you  now?  The  situation  of  which  I  speak 
was  a  servant's.  He  was  a  valet-de-chambre — the 
work  suited  him,  the  pay  was  not  bad,  and  he 
had  but  little  time  to  trouble  his  mother,  while  yet 
he  could  from  time  to  time  come  and  see  her.  I 
had  also  the  happiness,  which  has  turned  out 
no  happiness,  to  have  my  sister  here,  where  for 
the  sake  of  her  health  it  was  better  she  should  live 
than  in  London.  I  found  this  house  a  bargain 
incredible;    it  was  not  worth  the  owTier's  while 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  339 

to  look  for  a  tenant  who  would  ask  for  re- 
pairs. There  are  now  but  two  years  to  run; 
and  the  house  has  a  bad  name" — she  dropped 
her  voice. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"That  room  upstairs,"  she  said,  faltering, 
"had  been  occupied  by  a  former  tenant,  who 
was  at  times  mentally  afflicted,  who — but  of 
what  use,  monsieur,  to  enter  into  the  history 
of  a  dead  man?  My  sister,  who  is  nervous,  found 
out  the  story,  though  she  speaks  but  little  Eng- 
lish— and  reproached  me.  She  is  of  those  who 
reproach  always  and  are  grateful  never,"  said 
Mme.  Minart  bitterly;  "but  what  matter?  I 
have  adored  my  sister,  monsieur;  shall  it  end 
because  she  grows  ill  and  unreasonable?  On  the 
contrary,  I  comfort  myself  with  the  hope  that  she 
may  recover,  and  be  once  more  to  me  the  angel  of 
former  days.  I  took  the  house  in  her  name;  I 
spent  my  savings  upon  these  things  that  you  see 
— that  are  mine" — she  waved  her  hand  rather 
proudly  round  the  room — "but  you  will  under- 
stand, monsieur,  that  I  did  not  give  them  my 
address.  I  would  not  trust  Jules,  who  might  have 
visited  me — and  my  sister  entreated  not  to  know 
lest  he  should  question  her.  She  could  refuse  him 
nothing.  Ah,  monsieur!  when  he  was  little  all 
went  well ;  I  made  money,  I  helped  them,  we  were 
happy.  But  since  Jules  grew  up  there  has  been 
no  comfort.  Whatever  I  have  given — it  has  never 
been  enough." 


340  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

In  the  midst  of  his  anger  David  pitied  this 
woman,  and  she  was  quick  to  observe  the  soften- 
ing of  his  expression. 

"Ah,  monsieur,"  she  said,  passionately,  "do 
not  believe  me  so  bad!  I  have  worked  hard 
all  my  life.  I  have  been  honest — that  is,  enough 
honest — all  my  life;  and  reflect  to  what  it  has 
led  me.  Poverty,  struggles,  anxiety  always, 
sometimes  despair;  and  my  sister,  loved  always, 
whose  faults  arise  but  from  her  malady,  dying 
before  my  eyes.  When  they  had  been  settled 
here  two  years,  my  situation,  where  I  had  made 
incredible  efforts  to  please,  failed  me.  I  tasted 
for  the  first  time  the  horror  of  being  without 
occupation.  I  said  to  myself  then,  "You  who 
are  clever,  who  are  full  of  resource,  why  can  you 
not  make  your  fortune  with  one  coup?  You  who 
have  brains,  will  you  starve  among  fools  because 
you  are  afraid  to  use  them?"  I  do  not  defend 
myself.  I  tell  you  the  truth.  It  was  thus  I  argued. 
Then  I  obtained  this  post  in  Belgrave  Square. 
But  the  thought  was  ever  present  with  me  of 
the  time  when  I  should  no  longer  be  able  to 
please — of  the  moment  when  my  sister's  illness, 
which  is  in  our  family,  might  also  be  mine.  My 
father  and  mother  died  thus,  and  my  little 
brother." 

He  could  not  refrain  from  a  word  and  look  of 
sympathy;  but  she  hurried  on,  scarcely  speaking 
above  a  whisper. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  341 

"Miladi  boasted  always  of  the  expectations 
of  this  young  girl,  so  precious  to  a  great  family, 
and  I  thought,  if  one  could  hide  her — this  treas- 
ure— for  a  little  while,  what  reward  would  they 
not  offer  to  get  her  back?  Then  I  thought  of 
that  room — how  easy  it  would  be  to  keep  her 
there — how  solitary  the  house — ^how  that  no  one 
knew  of  my  sister.  I  went  to  see  her  and  I  talked 
of  it  to  her.  We  agreed  it  would  be  very  easy. 
I  told  her  the  reward  would  be  large,  and  spoke 
of  a  fortune  for  Jules,  of  a  house  and  garden  in 
our  own  country.  But  we  had  no  thought,  no 
wish,  to  harm  Philippa." 

"No  wish  to  harm  her,  and  you  would  send 
her  to  the  house  where  this  scoundrel  lived 
with  his  sick  mother?  A  young  girl,  helpless — 
undefended!" 

"My  faith,  monsieur,  had  there  been  the  pos- 
sibility of  an  encounter  between  those  two,  it  is 
Jules  whom  I  should  have  pitied!"  said  Mme. 
Minart,  scornfully.  "She  has  a  character,  that 
young  girl.  She  is  strong  of  mind  and  body. 
What  would  she  have  had  to  do  with  him — weak, 
sickly,  small,  and  a  coward?  He  would  but  have 
aroused  her  ridicule,  her  contempt.  Besides, 
he  has  but  few  holidays.  He  was  not  likely  to 
be  at  home.  Ah,  monsieur,  believe  me,  I  had  no 
designs  of  this  kind  when  I  persuaded  Philippa 
to  come  here;  I  believed  she  would  be  as  safe 
in  the  care  of  my  sister  as  in  her  mother's  house." 


342  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

* '  How  did  you  persuade  her  to  come  here  ? " 
' '  I  won  her  affection  and  gained  her  confidence. 
Miladi  tired  of  her  company  and  she  was  always 
with  me.  Then  I  made  my  plan.  I  told  her  the 
secret  of  my  home,  and  when  we  went  to  the 
Crystal  Palace  I  took  her  there  that  she  might 
know  the  way.  But  yet  I  hesitated.  Then 
came  suddenly  the  news  of  the  death.  When  I 
met  Roper  on  the  stairs  and  she  told  me  this, 
the  morning  after  the  ball,  I  saw  that  my  oppor- 
tunity would  be  gone.  That  she  would  leave 
London;  that  I  might  be  left  behind.  Of  what 
use  to  trust  to  the  affection,  the  promises  of  a 
child?  She  would  find  a  thousand  flatterers  now 
where  she  had  but  one,  and  forget  me  in  her 
new  importance.  I  took  my  resolution  in  haste. 
I  persuaded  Roper  not  to  go  to  her  room,  and 
secretly  I  went  myself  and  woke  her.  I  told  her 
that  I  had  bad  news;  that  my  sister  was  in 
trouble,  that  a  word  from  me  would  save  her, 
and  that  Miladi  would  not  let  me  go.  I  beg  of 
her  in  the  name  of  our  friendship  to  take  a  let- 
ter and  give  it  into  my  sister's  own  hands. 
Or  rather,"  said  Mme.  Minart,  shrugging  her 
shoulders,  "I  led  her  to  make  this  offer,  poor 
child,  and  she  did  so,  on  condition  she  may  con- 
fess her  action  afterwards  to  her  mother.  This 
soothes  her  conscience  and  my  fears.  I  tell  her 
she  will  be  back  before  she  is  missed,  and  beg  hei 
to  go  without  waiting  to  speak  to  any  one.    Bein^ 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  343 

young  and  quick,  and  with  good  luck  to  aid  her, 
she  shpped  out  unobserved  while  the  household 
is  all  gaping  downstairs  round  the  groom  who 
brings  the  news,  and  thus  she  heard  no  word  of 
what  had  happened." 

"Then  she  does  not  know — but,  of  course, 
she  can't  know,"  said  David. 

"She  knows  nothing.  The  letter  she  carried 
told  my  sister  to  put  our  plan  into  effect — to 
detain  her  as  we  had  agreed  by  taking  her  to  that 
room  which  lent  itself  so  well  to  our  purpose, 
under  pretence  of  giving  her  something  for  me — 
and  to  lock  her  in;  and  that  I  would  myself  be 
with  her  before  night.  This  I  said  because  I 
knew  that  my  sister,  though  willing  to  obey 
me,  was  weak  and  frightened,  and  that  the 
thought  of  my  coming  would  give  her  courage  to 
carry  out  my  instructions.  But  I  posted  im- 
mediately, under  pretence  of  running  into  the 
square  to  look  for  Philippa,  a  letter  for  my  sister 
to  get  that  night  explaining  that  I  could  not 
come  or  even  write  for  a  few  days;  repeating 
my  instructions,  and  adding  that  I  would  come 
as  soon  as  it  was  possible  w^ith  safety.  I  enclosed 
a  note  which  I  told  her  would  calm  the  appre- 
hensions of  the  poor  little  prisoner,  and  which  was 
to  be  sent  up  to  her  in  the  dinner-lift  with  her 
food,  which  I  even  enjoined,"  said  Mme.  Minart, 
with  a  melancholy  smile,  "was  to  be  of  the  best, 
though  there  was  little  need  to  tell  my  sister  that." 


344  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"What  did  you  write  to  Philippa?" 

"Something,  you  may  be  sure,  of  appeal  to  the 
romance  of  a  young  girl,  to  her  love  and  her 
faith  in  me.  I  urged  her  to  be  patient  until  I 
should  come  and  release  her.  I  hinted  at  a  danger 
from  which  I  had  rescued  her.  Of  what  matter, 
since  she  never  received  the  letter?  It  was  en- 
closed with  this  which  my  sister  never  received." 

"You  mean  she  locked  up  Philippa  as  you 
desired,  and,  believing  you  would  be  there  in  a 
few  hours,  ran  away  and  left  her?" 

' '  The  letter  you  hold  will  explain .  Jules  had  been 
turned  out  of  his  place  and  threatened  by  his  mas- 
ter. He  came  home  in  a  great  fright  to  his  mother, 
and  confessed  that  there  were  other  things  which 
might  be  found  out  now  that  he  had  left.  In 
two  words,  monsieur — he  was  a  thief.  She 
packed  their  things  and  resolved  to  fly  to  France 
with  him  at  once.  Just  as  they  were  starting — 
came  Philippa!" 

"And  they  determined  to  go  all  the  same, 
leaving  her  helpless,  locked  up  in  an  empty 
house?" 

"You  see  what  she  says.  Feeble,  changeable, 
frightened,  and  ungrateful  as  she  always  was," 
said  Mme.  Minart,  in  vehement  scorn. 

Translated,  the  end  of  the  letter  ran  thus : 

"7  have  done  as  you  told  me.  But  I  will  have 
no  more  to  do  with  your  scheme.  You  need  not 
blame  Jules,  for  you  are  as  had  as  he.    I  will  not 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  345 

wait  for  your  return  or  be  forced  to  stay  here.  We 
are  going  at  once.  My  husband's  father  will  not 
refuse  to  take  us  in  until  something  can  be  decided; 
write  to  his  house  at  Aumont." 

"This  she  left  on  the  table,  and  so  went;  and 
never  got  my  letter  to  say  I  could  not  come.  She  is 
a  fool,  but  she,  too,  had  no  intention  of  doing 
this  great  wrong,"  said  Mme.  Minart. 

"And  how  did  you  ever  dream  you  would 
get  away  unwatched?  How  long  did  you  think 
it  would  have  been  possible  to  keep  the  place 
of  her  hiding  secret?" 

"Monsieur,  I  had  thought  of  many  schemes — 
of  what  use  to  explain  them? — of  course  there  is 
always  risk."  There  was  a  gleam  of  excitement 
in  Mme.  Minart's  eyes  which  betrayed  that  the 
thought  of  the  risk  would  not  have  deterred  her 
action.  "This  I  did  not  foresee,  that  I  should 
be  watched;  I  thought  I  had  made  it  impossible 
that  I  should  be  suspected,  and  also  I  counted 
on  the  fear  of  scandal.  Since  a  young  girl  was 
in  question,  I  believed  the  family  would  not 
permit  of  advertisement.  In  all  these  things 
my  calculations  were  deceived;  and  yet,  had 
my  sister  not  failed  me,  I  believe  my  plan  would 
have  succeeded — but  for  you." 

The  colour  mounted  into  her  dark  face;  she 
stood  before  him,  trembling  and  suppliant,  with 
her  hands  nervously  clasped. 

"You  prom.ised  to  help — to  defend  me,"  she 


346  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

said  almost  inaudibly .  "  I  do  not  ask  it,  monsieur. 
I  have  done  enough  of  wrong  to  this  child.  A 
wrong  I  never  meant,  but  nevertheless  it  was 
I  who  condemned  her  to  a  prison  so  terrible. 
I  will  do  what  I  can  to  make  amends.  No  breath 
of  doubt  must  be  allowed  to  rest  upon  her.  I,  who 
speak  to  you,  am  not  ignorant  of  the  world. 
The  part  I  have  played  must  for  her  sake  be 
made  known,  but " 

David  avoided  the  pleading  gaze  she  fixed 
upon  his  face;  his  expression  was  very  gloomy 
and  undecided.  He  did  not  forget  his  promise, 
but  the  thought  of  the  victim  of  this  woman's 
plot,  lying  helpless  upstairs,  caused  him  to  regret 
it  very  heartily  at  this  moment.  He  saw  beside 
endless  difficulties  in  the  way  of  its  fulfilment. 

The  sudden  clang  of  the  door-bell  relieved  his 
embarrassment,  and,  with  an  instantaneous  change 
of  tone  and  manner,  Mme.  Minart  flew  to  the  door. 

"The doctor!"  she  exclaimed. 

The  doctor  made  his  excuses  for  a  delay  un- 
avoidable, listened  with  sympathetic  surprise 
to  David's  brief  explanation,  and  was  conducted 
upstairs. 

It  seemed  to  poor  Colonel  Moore's  impatience 
a  very  long  time  before  he  came  down  again. 
He  forgot  Mme.  Mtnart's  very  existence,  and 
moved  restlessly  about  the  empty  house,  listening 
to  every  sound,  and  conjecturing  a  thousand 
<tomplications  to  himself. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  347 

"You  were  only  just  in  time,"  said  the  doctor, 
gravely. 

"But  it  is  in  time?" 

"I  think  and  hope  so,  thanks  to  her  youth 
and  health  and  a  fine  constitution.  But  the 
exhaustion  is  excessive — probably  result  of  emo- 
tion and  terror  as  well  as  starvation.  Good  God, 
what  an  infamous  thing,  and  this  is  the  twen- 
tieth century!"  The  doctor's  face  worked  with 
indignation. 

Mme.  Minart  stood  motionless  by  the  table 
listening,  a  model  of  neatness  and  good  looks 
in  her  black  gown,  white  apron,  and  snowy  collar. 
The  doctor's  approving  glance  noted  her  in  the 
midst  of  his  emotion,  and  noted  also  the  order  of 
the  room  and  the  dainty  muslin  curtains  of  the 
open  window. 

"I  hope  some  one  will  be  brought  to  book  for 
this.  Of  course  I've  read  all  about  the  case  in 
the  papers.  You've  given  notice  to  the  police? 
Or  can  I  be  of  help?" 

"I'm  going  to  settle  all  about  that  now,"  said 
David,    ' '  Is  she  too  weak  to  be  moved  ? ' ' 

"Couldn't  stand  it  yet,  I'm  sending  in  a 
trained  nurse  to  assist  Lady  Adelstane.  Skilled 
nursing  is  absolutely  essential.  She  shall  bring 
all  that  is  required  with  her." 

"Everything  that  is  wanted  can  be  sent  for," 
said  David.  "I'll  get  my  servant  down,  and  an 
old  confidential  maid  is  coming." 


348  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"Aye,  so  Lady  Adelstane  told  me.  A  woman 
who  can  make  beef- tea,  and  hold  her  tongue." 

"I  make  at  this  moment,"  said  Mme.  Minart 
in  a  hoarse  voice,  "with  some  fillet  I  have  sent  for, 
a  bouillon  as  good  as  your  English  servants 
could  cook." 

"I'll  be  bound  it  is,"  said  the  doctor,  drily. 
"Well,  the  fewer  people  about  the  better.  Keep 
her  absolutely  quiet.  I'm  afraid  the  reporters 
won't  be  long  finding  you  out." 

"I'll  look  after  them.  We  may  count  on  your 
discretion?" 

"Nobody  will  get  a  word  out  of  me.  Now  I 
won't  delay  another  moment  in  finding  the  nurse. 
I  have  given  full  directions  to  Lady  Adelstane, 
and  she  would  like  you  to  go  up  presently." 

David  saw  him  out  of  the  hall-door,  and 
hastened  upstairs,  where  he  found  Catherine 
standing  by  the  open  door  of  the  attic. 

"She's  better,  and  she  has  asked  for  you  twice," 
said  the  soft  voice. 

He  wondered  at  the  calm  brightness  of  her  face. 

Catherine  had  her  child  safe  in  her  own  care 
at  last;  and  there  was  such  peace  in  the  thought, 
after  the  agonising  suspense  of  the  last  eight 
days,  that  there  was  actually  no  room  for  anxiety 
in  her  heart,  though  she  had  been  so  often  anx- 
ious with  far  less  cause. 

Her  mind  was  tranquil,  full  of  thankfulness 
and  joy.     Her  child  had  been  given  back  to  her, 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  349 

helpless,  needing  her  utmost  care;  and  that  was 
all  that  Catherine  thought  of  just  now. 

"Philippa  is  restless,  afraid  you  had  gone  away 
without  seeing  her  again,"  said  Catherine,  softly. 
"You  must  see  her  for  a  moment,  but  not  let 
her  talk.  David" — she  put  her  little  hand 
gently  into  his — "I  cannot  speak  to  you  of  what 
you  have  done  now." 

"Not  now — nor  ever,"  he  said.  She  shook 
her  head  and  smiled. 

"I  can  only  bear  to  think,"  she  said  without 
faltering,  "of  the  things  of  the  moment,  of  what 
she  wants  now.  And — and,  David,  I  leave  it 
all  to  you — to  tell  Lady  Sarah  and  George,  and 
to  stop  the  search.  Only  let  no  one  come  and 
disturb  us  here." 

"Leave  it  all  to  me,"  said  David.  He  followed 
her  into  the  attic  as  noiselssly  as  he  could,  and 
was  astonished  by  the  changes  already  wrought 
by  Catherine. 

The  aspect  of  the  room  had  been  altered  as  far 
as  possible.  The  blue  dress  and  black  hat  were 
put  out  of  sight,  and  the  high  staring  barred  win- 
dow with  its  open  ventilator  was  shaded.  The 
roses  stood  on  the  little  table,  which  was  now 
covered  with  a  white  cloth.  The  bed  was  no 
longer  a  tumbled  couch,  but  white  and  smooth. 
Philippa  rested  amid  snowy  sheets  and  pillows, 
with  hair  softly  brushed  off  a  brow  refreshed  by 
cool  sponging. 


350  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

She  looked  more  like  herself  in  spite  of  the 
terrible  emaciation,  and  a  faint  colour  showed 
in  her  sunken  cheeks  as  David  tiptoed  into  the 
room. 

"She  wants  to  thank  you,"  said  Catherine, 
interpreting  her  look  and  speaking  in  a  low, 
cheerful  tone.  "But  I've  told  her  we  can't 
have  any  talking  until  to-morrow,  so  she  may 
just  smile  at  you,  and  then  go  to  sleep  like  a  good 
child." 

David  took  the  nerveless  hand  very  gently  in 
his  own  and  bent  down  and  kissed  it  reverently. 

"You'll  make  haste  and  get  well,  Philippa," 
he  muttered,  not  knowing  very  well  what  to  say; 
and  bending  again,  just  caught  a  little  murmur: 

"You  won't  go  away?" 

"I  should  think  not,"  he  said,  cheerily.  "I'm 
sending  for  my  things,  and  I'm  going  to  mount 
guard  here  day  and  night,  to  be  at  hand  in  case 
I'm  wanted.  And  old  Roper  will  be  here  in  a 
minute  or  two,  you  know,  ready  to  make  gallons 
of  beef -tea,  and  all  the  doctor  wants  you  to  have, 
that  you  may  get  quite  strong  again." 

She  tried  to  smile,  but  her  lips  quivered  in  her 
weakness  and  the  tears  welled  into  the  great  blue 
eyes.  David  dared  not  stay;  he  kissed  her  hand 
again  and  smiled  encouragingly,  and  went  away, 
but  this  time  with  a  warm  feeling  of  comfort, 
almost  triumph,  about  his  heart;  for  he  could 
not   help   feeling  that   it   was  to  him   Philippa 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  351 

looked  as  her  deliverer,  and  that,  though  she  had 
her  mother,  she  yet  seemed  to  want  him  too,  a 
little,  after  all. 

Downstairs  the  newly  wound  clock  ticked 
loudly  over  the  mantelpiece  of  the  bright  stove, 
and  the  fresh  air  of  the  summer  afternoon  blew 
in  through  the  wide-open  window;  but  the  little 
sitting-room  was  empty. 

A  sheet  of  paper,  with  a  weight  upon  it,  was 
placed  conspicuously  in  the  centre  of  the  table. 
On  the  paper  was  written,  in  a  clear  and  pointed 
hand: 

"  To  M.  le  Colonel  Moore. 

"I  go  to  give  notice  to  the  police,  and  to  place 
myself  at  their  disposal.  This  will  at  once  relieve 
you  of  an  embarrassment,  and  convince  you  of 
the  sincerity  of  my  regrets.  M.  Minart." 


CHAPTER  XX 

"Of  course  I'm  not  so  upset  as  I  was  last  week," 
sobbed  Augusta.  "It's  absurd  to  expect  it; 
one  must  get  over  these  things  with  time,  or 
where  would  any  one  be?  Lady  Sarah  might 
make  allowance  for  my  relief  about  Philippa, 
instead  of  which  she  insinuates  that  I  am  heart- 
less. I!  Look  at  me!  In  crape  from  head  to 
foot — the  very  thing  I  hate  most  in  the  world 
— and  not  able  to  speak  without  crying.  But 
there  is  no  one  to  stand  up  for  me  now;  though 
I  do  think  you  might,  Blanche,  if  you  had  any 
sisterly  feeling." 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  complain  of  your  not  being 
sufficiently  upset,  whatever  Lady  Sarah  may 
do,"  said  Blanche,  drily.  "On  the  contrary,  I 
wish  you'd  pull  yourself  together  a  bit  more 
than  you  do." 

"It's  all  very  well  for  you  to  talk — you  have 
never  known  what  real  sorrow  is,"  said  Augusta, 
weeping  yet  more  profusely;  "and  I  must  say 
Catherine's  ingratitude,  coming  on  the  top  of 
all  the  rest,  is  enough  to  scatter  any  self-com- 
mand one  has  left  to  the  winds.    I  am  not  to  go 

35a 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  353 

and  see  Philippa;  she  is  not  to  be  brought  back 
here;  though  I  am  told  the  place  she  is  in  is 
little  better  than  a  pigsty;  and  her  nerves  are 
too  much  shattered  for  a  visit  from  -me.  It  was 
days  before  I  was  even  allowed  to  know  where 
she  was.  Why  this  mystery?  Everything  kept 
so  dark.  And  then  they  fly  to  the  opposite  ex- 
treme, and  just  when  Philippa  is  -doing  well,  and 
one  hoped  the  whole  thing  might  be  hushed 
up,  out  it  all  comes  in  the  papers,  and  they  say 
there  is  sure  to  be  a  trial,  and  for  Philippa's  sake 
all  the  facts  must  be  known.  I  never  heard  such 
nonsense.  How  can  it  be  necessary  to  let  people 
know  one's  own  cousin  was  almost  starved  to 
death?  And  it  is  sure  to  get  about  that  it  was 
my  fault;  though  I  had  no  more  to  do  with  it 
than  the  man  in  the  moon." 

"That  is  just  what  the  facts  will  prove,  and 
for  my  part  I  hope  that  woman  Minart  will  catch 
it  hot  and  strong,"  said  Blanche,  gloomily. 

"I  think  it  is  very  spiteful  of  you  to  say  so, 
Blanche.  For  my  part  I  always  liked  Mme. 
Minart,  and  I  cannot  believe  she  is  half  so  bad 
as  the  police  choose  to  make  out.  Of  course 
they  must  be  taking  up  somebody,  or  what  are 
they  for?  As  I  wrote  to  Catherine  when  she 
sent  me  word  she  did  not  wish  the  poor  thing  to 
be  prosecuted,  and  I  never  had  the  least  idea  of 
prosecuting  her!  Pilkington  says  that  she  is 
certain  to  get  off  verj'-  cheap  if  she  is  charged 

as 


354  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

on  her  own  confession,  but  if  she  chooses  to  be 
charged  on  her  own  confession  that  has  nothing 
to  do  with  me.  I  am  sure  I  am  not  fit  to  be 
prosecuting  anybody.  As  I  told  David  Moore, 
I  decHne  to  undertake  any  responsibiHty  what- 
ever in  my  present  state  of  wretchedness.  I 
will  sign  anything  they  put  before  me,  but  more 
than  that  I  will  not  do." 

"You  are  sure  to  be  called  upon  to  give  your 
evidence  as  soon  as  Philippa  is  strong  enough 
to  appear,  whether  you  like  it  or  not,"  said 
Blanche,  grimly. 

"I  have  never  done  such  a  thing  in  my  life, 
and  I  can't  believe  it  will  be  necessary,"  said 
Augusta,  resentfully,  "when  we  don't  wish  to 
prosecute.  However,  to  do  David  Moore  justice, 
I  believe  he  is  doing  all  he  can  for  Mme.  Minart 
so  it  may  end  in  her  getting  off  altogether.  I  am 
sure  I  never  wish  to  hear  her  name  again.  It's 
a  lesson  to  me  to  see  what  comes  of  being  good- 
natured,  and  asking  other  people's  children  to 
stay.  I  always  said  Roper  was  a  most  unsuitable 
person  to  have  charge  of  Philippa.  She  had  no 
influence  over  her  at  all,  or  how  could  she  have 
let  her  run  out  alone  into  the  street  before  break- 
fast; a  thing  nobody  in  London  ever  does.  But 
Catherine  would  have  it  she  was  to  be  trusted, 
and  you  see  the  result!" 

Blanche  yawned  unseen. 

"Well,  whether  Lady  Sarah  likes  it  or  not, 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  355 

I  shall  go  abroad  all  the  same.  Of  what  use  can 
I  be  here?  George  Chilcott  and  Catherine  and 
Colonel  Moore  settle  everything  just  as  they 
choose.  I  am  nobody!  I  shall  not  come  back 
to  England  at  all,  till  the  whole  business  of 
Philippa's  escapade  is  forgotten,  and  she  is  safely 
engaged  to  young  Kentisbury." 

"It  strikes  me  your  exile  will  be  somewhat 
prolonged  then,"  said  Mrs.  Rait. 

"I  don't  see  that.  Every  one  knows  he  wants 
to  marry  her,"  said  Augusta,  peevishly.  "And, 
as  Lady  Sarah  says,  the  sooner  she  marries  after 
this  esclandre  the  better.  He  has  made  no  secret 
of  being  in  love  with  her.  He  told  his  mother 
on  the  night  of  the  ball;  and  she  told  Lady 
Sarah,  who  told  Tailer,  who  told  my  maid.  That 
is  how  I  came  to  hear  of  it." 

"Well,  I,  for  one,  should  be  very  sorry  to  see 
Philippa  married  to  a  young  nincompoop  who 
hasn't  even  begun  to  sow  his  wild  oats,"  cried 
Blanche. 

"Why  must  he  sow  any  wild  oats  at  all?" 

"It's  reasonable  to  suppose  that  he'll  do  much 
as  his  father  and  grandfather  did  before  him. 
And  every  one  knows  what  they  were  like.  I 
don't  trust  the  breed,"  said  Blanche,  bluntly. 

"You  always  talk  as  though  people  were 
horses  and  dogs,  and  I  do  think  you  are  very 
uncharitable,  considering  that  Philippa  met  him 
at   my   house,"    complained   Augusta.      "I   was 


356  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

going  to  ask  you  to  go  to  Plombieres  with  me, 
Blanche;  but  when  you  are  in  this  mood,  I  know 
very  well  it's  no  use  asking  you  anything." 

"Why  don't  you  invite  Grace?  She  suits  you 
far  better  than  I  do." 

"I  have  asked  her,"  said  Augusta,  in  an  injured 
tone,  "and  she  won't  give  any  definite  answer. 
She  keeps  shilly-shallying.  To  tell  you  the  truth, 
Blanche,  and  strictly  between  ourselves,  of  course, 
I  am  getting  rather  sick  of  Grace  Trumoin.  She 
makes  quite  a  favour  now  of  doing  anything  I 
ask.  One  would  think  she  would  have  jumped 
at  coming  to  Plombieres.  She  needn't  take  the 
baths.  She  can  just  sit  about  and  do  nothing. 
Every  one  knows  she  can't  afford  to  get  any 
thinner." 

"H'm!"  said  Mrs.  Rait,  and  fell  into  a  reverie. 
"Well,  Gussie,  I'm  sure  I  don't  want  to  be  unkind, 
especially  just  now,"  in  a  softened  tone.  "So 
I'll  tell  you  what — ^we'll  leave  it  an  open  question. 
If  Grace  comes,  I  won't — and  if  she  doesn't  you 
can  fall  back  on  Bob  and  me.  We're  going  to 
mote  about  Europe,  anjrway,  so  we  may  just 
as  well  make  our  headquarters  there  as  anywhere 
else,  so  far  as  I  can  see.  Where  is  Grace,  by 
the  way?  I  thought  she  was  staying  with  you? 
Has  she  gone  back  to  her  flat?" 

"Dear  me,  no!  She  is  still  here,  and  has  been 
here  ever  since  Catherine  went  away.  How 
could  I  be  left  alone  in  my  state  ?   Not  that  she 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  357 

is  much  good  to  me.  She  is  downstairs  in  the 
morning-room  playing  Halma  with  that  child. 
I  must  say  it's  very  hard  the  way  I  am  sad- 
dled right  and  left  with  other  people's  children. 
However,  George  Chilcott  is  taking  Lily  home 
to-morrow." 

Augusta  was  unaware  that  George  Chilcott 
was  at  this  moment  in  her  house,  and  watching 
the  game  of  Halma  in  the  morning-room,  whither 
he  had  been  ushered  when  he  called  and  asked 
to  see  his  little  daughter. 

"If  I  can't  stop  here  any  longer,"  said  little 
Lily,  dolefully,  "and  as  Cousin  Catherine  doesn't 
want  me  now  she's  got  Philippa  back  again — I 
suppose  I  must  go  home  with  you,  daddy.  But 
couldn't  Lady  Grace  come  with  us?" 

She  looked  up  urgently  into  her  father's  face, 
and  thus  did  not  perceive  the  confusion  of  her 
friend,  whose  hand  she  held  tightly.  "It's  getting 
very  hot  in  London  now,"  she  urged,  "and 
Lady  Grace  is  very  fond  of  the  country.  I'm 
sure  she  doesn't  want  to  go  abroad  with  Lady 
Adelstane.  If  you  asked  her,  I  believe  she'd 
come." 

"I  don't  know  whether  she'd  come  or  not, 
Lily,"  said  George  Chilcott,  looking  over  her 
head  at  Lady  Grace,  "  but  I  know  I've  been 
wanting  to  ask  her  that  question  for  some  time 
past,  and  I  don't  suppose  I  shall  ever  get  a  better 


358  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

opportunity  to  do  so  than  now — by  the  lips  of  a 
very  unconscious  ambassador." 

"Papa!  I'm  not  unconscious,"  said  Lily,  indig- 
nantly. "I  know  perfectly  what  I'm  saying.  I 
want  her  to  come  and  stay  with  us  for  a  long  visit." 

"And  I  want  her  to  come  and  stay  with  us 
altogether,"  said  George,  quietly. 

"That  would  be  better  still,"  Lily  said,  over- 
joyed.    "Will  you — won't  you  come?" 

"I  think — I  should  like  to,  Lily,"  said  Lady 
Grace,  in  a  low  tone. 

"Then  that  is  settled,"  said  Lily  with  satis- 
faction, and  neither  her  father  nor  Lady  Grace 
could  help  laughing. 

Mrs.  Rait  at  this  moment  opened  the  door 
of  the  morning-room.  "What  is  settled?"  she 
cried  in  her  loud  cheerful  tones,  and  George 
pulled  his  moustache  in  confusion,  but  Lady 
Grace  answered  with  a  gaiety  unusual  to  her: 

"That  I  cannot  go  to  Plombi^res  after  all, 
Blanche." 

"She  is  coming  to  Bridescombe  with  us,  in- 
stead," explained  Lily.  "I  asked  her  first ;  and 
then  daddy  asked  her ;  and  she  says  she  thinks  she 
would  like  to — so  I  suppose  that  means  yes." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it  did,  Lily,"  said  Mrs. 
Rait,  with  twinkling  eyes;  and,  to  Lily's  aston- 
ishment, she  shook  hands  heartily  with  George, 
and  kissed  Lady  Grace;  and  said  she  was  never 
so  glad  of  anything  in  all  her  life. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  359 

Perhaps  the  days  that  followed  the  finding  of 
Philippa  were  among  the  happiest  of  Catherine's 
life. 

The  deliverance  from  the  anguish  of  suspense 
she  had  suffered  was  in  itself  so  great  a  relief 
as  to  be  almost  joy;  while,  in  addition,  Philippa, 
utterly  dependent  on  her  for  the  time  being, 
seemed  her  own,  as  she  had  never  been  since  her 
earliest  childhood. 

For,  from  the  moment  she  regained  full  con- 
sciousness, she  clung  to  her  mother,  and  would 
permit  no  ministration  from  nurse  or  doctor 
save  in  her  presence.  She  started  from  sleep  in 
terror  many  times,  to  ask  if  Catherine  were 
there,  and  whether  David  had  gone  away  again 
and  left  her  alone ;  and  she  was  always  calm  and 
satisfied  when  she  could  see  the  face  of  one  or 
the  other. 

Catherine  felt  no  jealousy  of  David;  she 
accepted  his  devotion  and  his  services  as  a  matter 
of  course,  without  troubling  to  reflect  that  it 
was  George  Chilcott,  and  not  he,  who  was  Philip- 
pa's  trustee  and  guardian.  David  was  Delia's 
brother,  who  understood  her  and  had  saved  her 
child. 

George  also  was  busy  with  her  affairs,  and 
perhaps  Catherine  regarded  that,  too,  as  a  matter 
of  course.  But  he  had  besides,  a  family  and 
interests  and  affections  of  his  own  to  occupy 
him;   whereas  David  was  unattached,  and  there- 


360  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

fore  free,  if  he  chose,  to  constitute  himself  her 
knight  and  protector. 

So  David,  though  he  went  daily  to  his  work 
in  the  War  Office,  was  allowed  to  pay  Philippa 
a  visit  morning  and  evening,  and  slept  at  the 
villa,  moimting  guard  over  the  little  household 
with  a  curious  sense  that  Catherine  and  her 
child  somehow  belonged  to  him  more  nearly 
than  to  any  one  else  in  the  world,  and  that 
no  one  else  had  so  much  right  to  defend 
them. 

Catherine,  too,  was  contented  to  leave  every- 
thing to  him,  so  that  she  was  not  troubled  with 
business  nor  communications  from  the  outside 
world,  but  could  be  left  in  peace  to  nurse  her 
chUd. 

For  Philippa  was  still  a  child  in  her  mother's 
eyes,  though  she  showed  herself  less  childish  than 
ever  before,  in  those  wakeful  hours  of  summer 
darkness,  when  she  clung  closer  to  Catherine 
and  whispered  something  of  the  thoughts  and 
dreams  that  had  haunted  those  long  days  and 
nights  of  starvation  and  solitary  confinement 
in  the  deserted  house. 

Catherine  shed  tears  over  the  broken  mur- 
murs, as  she  heard  of  the  courage  and  scorn  with 
which  the  poor  spoilt  child  first  faced  her  im- 
prisonment, so  certain  that  somebody  must  and 
would  come  to  her  aid  that  she  made  no  efforts 
to    release    herself — of    the    gradual    despairing 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  361 

conviction  that  she  had  been  left  alone  to  die — 
of  the  horrors  that  tortured  her  imagination 
as  her  bodily  weakness  increased — of  the  terrible 
faces  in  the  darkness,  and  the  pain — the  pain 
that  would  not  stop. 

"Oh,  let  me  tell  you,  mummie,"  she  whispered 
piteously,  w^hen  Catherine  would  have  stopped 
her,  fearing  to  let  her  dwell  on  these  recollec- 
tions; "it  gets  it  off  my  mind  to  tell  you.  You 
know,  at  last  I  wasn't  sure  where  I  was — and 
whether  it  was  night  or  day,  because  I  saw  the 
little  breakfast  table  at  Shepherd's  Rest  so 
plainly — even  Roper's  crusty  loaf  and  the  brown 
honeycomb;  and  I  heard  you  calling  me  to 
come,  but  I  couldn't  move.  And  I  thought 
then,"  said  Philippa,  very  simply,  "how  often 
you  had  called  me  and  I  wouldn't  come — and 
that  I  had  lived  sixteen  years  and  done  nothing, 
nothing  of  good  in  the  world,  and  that  now  I 
would  go  out  of  it  without  any  one  being  the 
better  for  my  being  bom." 

"0  Phil,  Phil,  how  little  you  know!"  cried 
her  mother,  softly. 

Catherine  hushed  her  and  soothed  her,  and 
listened  in  wonder  to  words  which  told  her  that 
Philippa's  seeming  heartlessness  had  been — after 
all — only  a  phase  of  her  careless  youth — a  phase 
already  lived  through  and  left  behind  w^hen  the 
child,  who  was  a  child  no  longer,  had  battled 
through  her  dark   hour  alone,  and  among    the 


362  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

mysteries  of  solitude  had  come  face  to  face 
with  death. 

But  her  cry  now  was  to  go  home,  and  the 
demand  brought  back  to  Catherine's  remem- 
brance that  Phihppa's  days  at  Shepherd's  Rest, 
Hke  the  days  of  her  childhood,  were  numbered, 
and  that  the  news  had  yet  to  be  broken  to  her 
of  her  cousin's  untimely  end,  and  her  own  in- 
heritance. 

Roper  was  sent  down  to  prepare  the  cottage 
for  their  reception,  as  soon  as  it  was  considered 
prudent  for  the  invalid  to  travel  after  the  fatigue 
and  emotion  engendered  by  her  necessary  attend- 
ance at  the  police  court;  where,  however,  every 
possible  consideration  was  shown  for  her  weak 
condition,  and  the  formal  taking  of  her  evidence 
soon  completed.  David  arranged  the  details  of 
their  journey,  which  was  to  be  made  at  night, 
both  to  avoid  the  heat  and  any  possibility  of  a 
curious  crowd  at  Ilverton,  where  George  Chilcott 
had  a  close  carriage  ready  to  meet  his  young 
cousin  and  ward. 

He  performed  the  double  service  of  escorting 
her  and  Catherine  home,  and  of  keeping  his  Aunt 
Dulcinea  out  of  the  way  until  Philippa  had  been 
safely  settled  in  her  own  room  and  her  own  bed. 

Poor  Miss  Dulcinea  had  time  to  exhaust  her 
joy,  her  wonder,  and  her  emotion  generally  over 
Catherine,  before  she  was  admitted  to  the  pres- 
ence of  her  grandniece  next  day.    Then  she  was 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  363 

so  much  overcome  by  the  dehcacy  of  Philippa's 
appearance  that  she  burst  into  tears,  and  had 
to  be  hurried  away,  without  regaining  breath 
or  presence  of  mind  to  make  a  single  indiscreet 
revelation. 

"But  Philippa  must  be  told  about  poor  Cecil. 
I  live  in  constant  dread  of  her  hearing  it  suddenly," 
Catherine  said  to  George  Chilcott,  "and  yet  I 
fear  the  effect  of  the  shock  upon  her.  She  is  still 
very  weak,  and  easily  upset,  and  she  worked 
herself  up  into  a  dreadful  state  about  Mme.  Mi- 
nart,  until  David  soothed  her  by  promising  to 
take  her  message  of  forgiveness,  and  to  see  that 
she  and  her  family  were  provided  for,  and  not 
left  to  struggle  on  in  sickness  and  disgrace  and 
poverty,  poor  things.  I  hope  they  won't  be 
too  hard  upon  her." 

"How  you  can  sentimentalise  over  that  woman 
I  can't  tell,"  said  George,  rather  crossly. 

"I  am  sorry  for  any  one  who  is  driven  to  crime 
by  want ;  for  I  suppose  that  is  what  it  practically 
amounted  to." 

"Well,  at  least  Philippa  must  have  got  over 
her  infatuation." 

"Yes,  but  the  first  personal  experience  of 
treachery  must  always  be  a  shock;  and  now  here 
is  this  terrible  news  awaiting  her." 

"You  had  better  tell  her  yourself  than  let 
her  find  it  out  from  some  one  else,  as  she  is  sure 
to  do,"  said  George,  gruffly. 


364  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

Catherine  told  Philippa  one  morning,  as  she 
sat  beside  the  open  window  of  the  low  oak  parlour, 
looking  almost  ethereally  delicate  in  her  white 
wrapper,  with  her  bright  hair  coiled  above  her 
transparent  brow  and  large  blue  eyes. 

The  day  was  oppressively  hot ;  the  distant  hills 
were  shrouded  in  early  mist,  but  the  garden 
was  blazing  in  full  sunshine. 

The  Madonna  lilies,  in  dazzling  purity  of  illu- 
minated white  and  gold,  stood  in  rows  below  the 
open  window,  their  glorious  clusters  almost  on  a 
level  with  Philippa's  eyes,  as  she  lay  back  in  her 
low  cushioned  chair.  Over  a  pointed  rustic 
archway,  the  opening  purple  stars  of  a  summer 
clematis  dangled  against  the  cloudless  sky,  above 
the  crimson  bunches  of  a  rambling  briar  rose. 
The  good  red-brown  soil  of  the  Devonshire  garden 
was  almost  hidden  by  the  burden  of  its  own 
wealth ;  deep-coloured  pansies,  scented  sweet-peas, 
delicately  tinted  campanulas,  and  brilliant  nas- 
turtiums. The  orange  calceolarias,  and  the 
scarlet  geraniums  glowed  vividly  in  the  shade 
or  shone  triumphant  in  the  sun;  and  the  bees 
hummed  about  the  lilies  and  the  carpet  of 
mignonette  which  sent  its  message  of  sweetness 
upwards  to  Philippa. 

The  long  shadows  of  early  morning  fell  across 
the  dewy  grass  from  the  young  spruce  firs  in  the 
plantation  Catherine  had  made  from  a  bracken- 
grown  paddock;    and  the  birds  sang  rapturously 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  365 

in  the  surrounding  woods.  A  cow  lowing  pite- 
ously  for  her  calf  added  a  note  of  sadness  to  the 
scene  of  nature's  waking  and  rejoicing. 

Philippa  listened  to  her  mother's  soft  reluctant 
voice,  and  cried,  and  looked  across  the  valley 
to  the  distant  hillside,  where,  among  the  rounded 
tree-tops  glowing  in  the  haze  of  the  early  sun- 
shine, the  turrets  of  her  own  Abbey  rose  to  view. 

The  almost  fatherly  love  and  admiration  of 
her  cousin  Cecil  had  not  been  lost  upon  her;  she 
cried  to  think  she  should  see  him  no  more,  and 
because  the  thought  of  a  new  responsibility 
was  too  much  for  her  in  her  weakness,  and  also 
because  she  had  at  times  vaguely  wished  that  her 
father's  Abbey  were  her  own,  without  consciously 
realising  that  the  road  to  the  attainment  of 
her  wish  lay  through  the  gate  of  death. 

But  she  was  young,  and  the  details  were  spared 
her,  and  the  story  told  so  tenderly  that  the  very 
suddenness  of  Cecil's  end  appeared  in  the  most 
merciful  light;  so  that  she  did  not  suffer,  as 
Catherine  had  feared,  from  the  shock.  She  was 
subdued  and  gentle,  and  shed  tears  from  time  to 
time,  during  that  long  day  by  the  open  window; 
while  her  mother  waited  anxiously  upon  her,  bring- 
ing her  the  frequent  nourishment  she  was  ordered 
to  take,  and  surrounding  her  with  loving  attentions, 
which,  truth  to  tell,  fidgeted  Philippa  not  a  little. 

But  the  next  morning  she  grew  almost  cheerful 
again,  for  little  Lily  was  admitted  as  a  visitor, 


366  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

and  chatted  away,  amusing  her  contemporary 
as  Catherine  with  all  her  efforts  was  unable  to  do ; 
for  Philippa  took  little  interest  in  the  daily 
trivial  happenings  of  the  household  and  farm, 
and  none  at  all  in  books,  so  that  she  was  not  an 
easy  patient  to  entertain. 

But  as  she  and  Lily  bent  their  heads  together 
and  whispered,  Catherine  heard  her  child  laugh 
more  than  once,  naturally  and  merrily — a  sound 
she  could  not  but  welcome,  though  Philippa 
stopped  herself  each  time,  wdth  a  guilty  glance 
towards  her  mother,  and  an  evident  pang  of 
self-reproach. 

Catherine  sighed,  and  yet  was  thankful ;  reflect- 
ing that  it  would  be  a  melancholy  world  if  the 
young  could  suffer  as  the  old,  instead  of  taking 
the  misfortunes  of  their  elders  as  much  for  granted 
as  they  are  generally  inclined  to  do. 

"  I  am  going  to  have  a  last  look  at  the  Alps," 
wrote  Lady  Sarah,  who  had  paid  farewell  visits 
to  Switzerland  at  regular  intervals  for  many 
years  past,  ' '  And  if  you  wish  to  do  me  a  kindness, 
my  dear  Catherine,  in  what  may  prove  to  be 
probably  the  last  summer  of  my  life,  you  will  join 
me  at  Lucerne.  I  shall  make  my  headquarters 
at  the  Schweitzerhof,  which  would  suit  us  all 
admirably  for  a  few  weeks,  but  if  you  prefer 
something  quieter,  there  is  nothing  to  prevent 
us  from  migrating  to  some  alpine  village  within 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  367 

easy  distance.  The  great  heights  do  not  suit  my 
weak  heart,  and  I  am  obHged  to  stay  on  my 
balcony  and  content  myself  with  such  scenery  as 
I  can  enjoy  from  thence,  without  any  attempt 
at  climbing  or  touring.  But  this  need  not  deter 
you,  and  the  entire  change  of  surroundings  would 
be  just  what  Philippa  requires  to  get  back  the 
tone  and  strength  she  has  lost.  There  w^ould  be 
opportunities  for  little  quiet  outings  for  her  now 
and  then,  since,  though  you  and  I  may  be  in  no 
mood  for  gaiety,  we  must  not  forget  she  is  a 
young  thing  who  should  not  be  allowed  to  mope, 
especially  under  the  circumstances.  I  am  break- 
ing up  very  fast,  and  it  would  be  a  consolation  to 
be  allowed  to  see  something  of  my  grandchild 
before  I  die." 

Catherine  did  not  find  herself  able  to  resist  this 
appeal,  and  laid  the  letter  before  Philippa  with 
a  suggestion  that  it  was  perhaps  a  duty  to  accept 
the  invitation  from  her  grandmother. 

"Could  Cousin  David  come  with  us?"  said  Phi- 
lippa, with  a  very  perceptible  increase  of  colour. 

"He  could  not  leave  his  work,  you  know, 
darling.  He  can't  even  come  down  here  very 
easily,  he  says." 

"Then  I  don't  want  to  go,"  said  Philippa, 
very  decidedly,  and  lay  back  in  her  arm-chair 
with  a  dejected  expression  which  went  to  her 
mother's   heart;    while   a  large   tear   forced   its 


368  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

way  through  her  closed  eyelashes  and  trickled 
down  her  thin  white  cheek. 

But  the  doctor  combated  the  young  lady's  reso- 
lution so  energetically  that  she  gave  way,  on  the 
promise  that  her  mother  would  bring  her  home  at 
the  end  of  a  fortnight  if  she  did  not  like  the  change. 

David  Moore  wrote  his  hearty  approval  of  the 
plan,  but  he  did  not  come  down  to  Welwysbere 
to  say  good-bye,  as  perhaps  Catherine  had  ex- 
pected, but  said  that  he  was  very  hard-worked 
just  now,  and  had  arranged  to  take  his  holiday 
in  the  autumn,  by  which  time  he  hoped  Philippa 
would  be  quite  strong  again. 

Lady  Sarah's  courier  relieved  them  of  all 
trouble  and  responsibility  during  the  journey, 
and  it  was  impossible  for  Philippa  to  say  that 
she  did  not  like  the  novelty  and  excitement  of 
leaving  her  own  country  for  the  first  time.  She 
enjoyed  even  the  Channel  crossing,  and  the 
arrival  at  Calais,  where  poor  Catherine  looked 
around  her  in  astonishment,  for  the  familiar 
ramparts  and  gateways  of  her  childhood  had 
vanished,  and  it  was  a  strange  new  Calais  which 
met  her  disappointed  gaze. 

But  Philippa  enjoyed  the  long  railway  journey 
through  the  flat  pollarded  country,  peopled  by 
unfamiliar  inhabitants  in  blue  blouses,  and 
slept  soundly  in  the  hotel  at  Bale,  where  they 
broke  the  journey,  sleeping  in  a  chambre  h  deux 
lits,  with  quaint  short  wooden  bedsteads,   fur- 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  369 

nished  with  mountainous  feather  quilts  in  spite 
of  the  summer  season. 

They  found  Lady  Sarah  at  Lucerne,  comfort- 
ably ensconced  in  a  suite  of  apartments  on  the 
first  floor  of  the  hotel,  with  her  maid  Tailer,  her 
tallest  footman,  and  a  little  dog  in  attendance; 
and  Philippa  was  so  little  fatigued  by  the  journey 
that  she  was  eager  to  go  out  at  once  and  buy  a 
family  of  wooden  bears  for  Lily,  though  she 
could  not  be  persuaded  to  interest  herself  in  the 
probability  of  the  clouds  presently  lifting  from 
the  summit  of  Mont  Pilatte. 

"I  know  exactly  what  mountains  are  like, 
mamma.  I  have  seen  dozens  of  pictures  of  them," 
said  Philippa;  and  she  was  allowed  to  venture 
forth  under  the  chaperonage  of  the  severe  Tailer, 
followed,  much  to  her  chagrin,  and  by  Lady 
Sarah's  peremptory  orders,  by  the  manservant. 

"I  will  have  no  more  adventures,"  observed 
her  grandmother,  "and  you  will  be  back  again 
in  half  an  hour,  Tailer." 

"Very  good,  my  lady,"  said  Tailer,  who  knew 
her  mistress  better  than  to  be  late  by  so  much 
as  a  moment  when  she  was  given  a  time  limit. 

"The  extraordinary  thing  is  that  the  journey 
has  absolutely  done  Phil  good,  instead  of  knock- 
ing her  up,"  said  Catherine.  "She  looks  better 
already.  How  wise  you  were!  For  I  have  been 
very  anxious  about  her  lately." 

"My  love,  you  give  yourself  a  great  deal  of 


370  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

unnecessary  anxiety,"  said  Lady  Sarah.  "A 
week  in  this  pure  air  will  entirely  restore  her. 
She  looks  stronger  than  you  do,  for  that  matter." 

"Oh,  Lady  Sarah,  how  can  you  say  so?  If 
you  had  but  seen  how  languid  and  depressed  she 
was,  and  how  little  interest  she  takes  in  things." 

"I  did  not  say  her  mind  was  stronger,"  said 
Lady  Sarah,  drily.  "But  it  is  impossible  to  look 
at  her  clear  skin  and  bright  eyes  without  perceiv- 
ing that  she  is  regaining  her  health  as  fast  as  pos- 
sible. Whereas  you,  my  poor  Catherine,  look  pale 
and  tired,  and  altogether  worn  out." 

"I  am  one  of  the  people  who  are  never  ill," 
said  Catherine,  shaking  her  head  with  a  faint 
smile.  "You  have  no  idea  how  strong  I  am. 
Philippa  is  a  very  different  matter." 

"A  little  youthful  companionship,  my  love," 
said  Lady  Sarah,  "is  all  that  is  needed  to  cheer 
our  sweet  Philippa,  and  afford  her  the  distraction 
she  requires.  It  is  impossible  to  tell  what  may 
be  ailing  a  girl's  spirits  at  that  age.  She  is  prob- 
ably in  love,"  said  Lady  Sarah,  with  a  twinkle  in 
her  blue  eye  for  which  Catherine  was  at  a  loss  to 
account,  until  the  required  distraction  was  pres- 
ently supplied  by  the  arrival  of  Lady  Kentisbury, 
with  her  son  and  daughter,  at  the  Schweitzerhof . 

Catherine  then  understood  very  well,  in  spite 
of  Lady  Sarah's  well-acted  surprise,  the  reason 
why  Philippa's  grandmother  had  been  so  exceed- 
ingly anxious  to  pay  a  farewell  visit  to  the  Alps. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

Catherine  and  her  daughter  remained  in  Swit- 
zerland until  nearly  the  end  of  September,  and 
during  these  two  months  Philippa  not  only- 
regained  her  health  completely,  but  fulfilled 
the  traditions  of  her  family  by  receiving  an  offer 
of  marriage  at  sixteen,  while  she  exasperated 
her  grandmother  by  refusing  it. 

"She  is  too  young,"  pleaded  Catherine,  whose 
heart  was  nevertheless  secretly  touched  by  the 
despair  of  the  youthful  lover  and  the  disap- 
pointment of  his  mother. 

"I  am  not  too  young,  and  I  would  not  marry 
him  if  I  were  a  hundred,"  said  Philippa,  with 
flushed  cheeks,  not  at  all  grateful  for  her  mother's 
gentle  championship;  for  she  felt  herself  quite 
able  to  face  Lady  Sarah's  scolding  unaided. 

Lady  Kentisbury  was  a  meek  woman;  but  the 
meekest  woman  in  the  world  will  turn  upon  the 
maiden  who  presumes  to  refuse  her  son. 

"I  have  nothing  to  say,"  she  said  with  great 
dignity  to  Catherine,  "nothing  at  all,"  and  she 
proceeded  to  discuss  the  matter  immediately. 
"She  is  quite  right  to  refuse  him  if  she  does  not 

371 


372  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

really  love  him — though  I  should  have  thought 
— but,  however,  she  is  too  young  to  estimate  a 
pure  disinterested  affection  at  its  true  worth. 
Still,  perhaps  it  is  a  pity  she  did  not  make  her 
feelings  clear  a  little  sooner — ^that  she  should 
have  allowed  him  to  hope  she  felt  quite  differently 
towards  him  during  all  these  weeks  of  boating 
and  excursions  and  mountain-climbing  together. 
I  would  never  have  encouraged  it  had  I  dreamt 
how  it  was  going  to  end.  It  seems  hard,  after  all 
the  anxiety  he  suffered  about  her  in  London, 
that  he  should  be  called  upon  now  to  suffer  all 
over  again." 

But  Philippa  neither  felt  nor  expressed  much 
sympathy  with  the  sufferings  of  her  rejected 
lover. 

"As  for  saying  I  allowed  him  to  hope,  mamma, 
that  is  all  nonsense,"  she  observed,  "unless 
snubbing  him  every  time  he  opened  his  mouth 
is  allowing  him  to  hope.  He  is  a  nice  boy,  and 
has  much  better  manners  than  Hector,  and  is 
not  half  so  stupid;  but  it  is  not  very  likely  I 
should  marry  a  muff  like  that." 

"You  are  a  little  idiot,"  said  her  grandmother, 
politely;  but  Lady  Sarah,  as  has  been  said,  was 
a  philosopher  in  her  way,  and  when  she  per- 
ceived that  Philippa  had  made  up  her  mind 
not  to  wed  her  cousin,  she  turned  her  thoughts 
in  another  direction,  comforted  herself  with  the 
reflection    that    her    grandchild    had    correctly 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  373 

described  the  young  man  as  a  muff,  and  set  her- 
self very  kindly  to  console  Lady  Kentisbury. 

"After  all,  my  dear  Jane,  it  might  not  have 
done.  Philippa  is  a  wilful,  obstinate  creature. 
She  should  marry  a  man  of  strong  character 
who  is  older  and  wiser  than  herself.  Kentisbury 
would  never  have  had  the  strength  of  mind  to 
keep  her  in  order.  Depend  upon  it  she  would 
have  led  him  a  fine  dance.  He  had  far  better 
marry  one  of  these  pretty  Americans  with  plenty 
of  dollars  and  plenty  of  sense,  who  would  be 
clever  enough  to  amuse  him  and  keep  him  out 
of  mischief,  and  bring  a  little  new  blood  into 
the  family,  and  it  is  to  be  hoped  a  few  brains 
into  the  bargain.  And  I  hear  wretched  accounts 
of  Philippa' s  property.  Poor  Cecil  left  his  affairs 
in  a  sad  muddle.  Mr.  Ash  reports  it  will  take  all 
her  four  years  of  minority  to  get  things  straight 
again.  He  even  advises  letting  the  Abbey.  That 
is  what  comes  of  marrying  a  rich  w^oman.  She 
saves  her  money  and  spends  yours.  Augusta 
was  always  the  soul  of  selfishness." 

"I  do  not  care  about  money.  Aunt  Sarah," 
said  Lady  Kentisbury,  reprovingly,  "though  of 
course  Charlie  could  not  very  w^ell  marry  a  girl 
who  had  nothing  of  her  own.  But  I  do  care 
about  his  happiness,  and  he  has  set  his  heart 
upon  marrying  Philippa." 

"Pooh,  nonsense,"  said  Lady  Sarah.  "A  boy 
of  one-and- twenty  has  fifty  hearts;    what  can  it 


374  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

signify  if  he  loses  one  ?  Find  the  pretty  American 
as  soon  as  possible;  and,  Jane,  don't  lose  sight 
of  him  for  a  moment,  or  he  will  be  making  some 
foolish  marriage  or  other  in  the  rebound." 

"It's  all  very  well  to  say  don't  lose  sight  of 
him,"  said  poor  Lady  Kentisbury,  in  tears;  "but 
he  is  of  age,  and  if  he  chooses  to  go  off  to  Tim- 
buctoo  or  marry  a  French  actress  to-morrow, 
how  can  I  stop  him?  He's  broken-hearted,  poor 
boy ;  begging  even  for  a  little  hope,  which  I  dare 
not  give  him." 

"Dare  not  give  him!  Fiddlededee!  Send  him 
to  me — I  will  give  him  plenty  of  hope,"  said  the 
unscrupulous  old  lady,  with  the  utmost  cheer- 
fulness, "and  Timbuctoo  is  an  excellent  idea. 
Now  I  come  to  think  of  it,  Jane,  it  is  enough  to 
drive  any  young  man  to  despair,  to  be  sym- 
pathised with  and  sentimentalised  over  from 
morning  till  night  by  you  and  Joanna.  He  must 
go  off  on  one  or  other  of  these  African  shooting 
expeditions.  Who  was  telling  me  about  them 
the  other  day?  Oh,  young  Askillaun,  a  nice 
cheerful  Irishman.  He's  going.  I  forget  when, 
and  I  forget  where;  but  I  can  easily  find  out. 
He  shaU  invite  Charlie.  He  would  do  anything 
for  me;  his  father  is  one  of  my  oldest  friends." 

"Do  you  want  my  boy  to  be  killed?"  shrieked 
his  mother. 

"There  are  no  actresses  in  Timbuctoo,"  said 
Lady  Sarah,  grimly,  "and  it  might  make  a  man 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  375 

of  him,  Jane.  At  present  he  is  nothing  but  a 
little  bundle  of  nerves  and  sensibility.  I'll  tell 
him  that  if  he  wants  Philippa  to  regret  him,  the 
further  he  goes  and  the  sooner  he's  off  the  better." 

"I'm  sure  he  and  Lord  Askillaun  would  have 
nothing  at  all  in  common,"  said  Lady  Kentisbury 
resentfully.  "I  believe  he  is  a  most  reckless 
man." 

But  later  on  her  son  actually  took  his  grand- 
mother's advice,  and,  to  the  despair  of  his  mother, 
departed  in  pursuit  of  big  game  in  the  wake 
of  this  famous  sportsman;  thereby  forgetting 
his  woes  and  improving  his  physique  at  one  and 
the  same  time.  Meanwhile  the  discomfort  of 
those  last  days  at  Lucerne,  the  gloom  of  the 
unsuccessful  suitor,  and  the  reproachful  looks 
of  his  parent  and  sister  had  to  be  endured. 

"It  is  odd  that  two  generations  of  rakes  should 
produce  such  a  milksop,"  said  Lady  Sarah  to 
Catherine,  quite  calmly.  "I  remember  his  grand- 
father as  a  very  pretty  fellow,  but  a  sad  dare- 
devil. I  believe  he  never  went  to  bed  sober  in  his 
life,"  and  she  related  to  the  horrified  Catherine  a 
number  of  the  most  scandalous  anecdotes  of  Lord 
Kentisbury's  forbears,  concerning  which  she  had 
not  hitherto  breathed  a  single  syllable. 

Catherine  was  not  a  little  thankful,  under  the 
circumstances,  to  carry  her  child  back  to  Devon- 
shire, and  Philippa  declared  and  believed  herself 
very  glad  to  go.    Nevertheless,  the  cottage  seemed 


376  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

very  small,  and  life  at  Shepherd's  Rest  very  dull, 
on  her  return  from  those  long  summer  weeks  of 
holiday-making  in  Switzerland,  after  the  bright- 
ness and  laughter  of  young  companionship,  the 
excitement  of  constant  expeditions,  the  atten- 
tions of  a  young  lover,  and  the  new  dignity  of 
womanhood  which  her  experiences  at  Lucerne 
had  conferred  upon  her. 

The  old  unhappy  state  of  things  seemed  inclined 
to  prevail  once  more  in  the  familiar  atmosphere 
of  the  home-life  of  mother  and  daughter. 

Philippa's  listless  manner  returned  upon  her, 
and  in  her  mother's  company  she  was  very  silent, 
though  obviously  and  painfully  trying  to  be  less 
petulant  and  wilful  than  formerly. 

There  are  some  children  who,  as  they  grow  up, 
ask  of  their  parents  only  one  thing — to  be  let 
alone  to  develop  in  their  own  way — and  to  whom 
the  anxious  counsel,  the  constant  questioning 
and  attention  and  watchfulness  engendered  by 
parental  love,  are   insupportable. 

The  husband  and  wife  whose  characters  do  not 
accord,  whose  early  love  proves  unable  to  with- 
stand the  test  and  fret  of  daily  intercourse — 
form  the  theme  of  many  tragedies  or  comedies 
of  misfortune;  but  comparatively  little  is  said 
of  the  parent  and  child  in  like  case.  Yet  since 
this  relationship  is  eternal — unchangeable — the 
tragedy  in  a  sense  lies  deeper.  The  parent  sel- 
dom speaks  of  the  bitter  love  and  disappointment 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  377 

— the  failure  of  earthly  hopes — involved;  nor 
does  the  child  often  utter  its  impatience  of  an 
affection  beyond  its  powers  of  comprehension, 
nor  explain  its  own  yearnings  for  individual 
freedom. 

Catherine  said  nothing;  but  Philippa's  old 
Somersetshire  nurse,  with  the  shrewdness  of 
peasant  wit  and  motherhood  combined,  easily 
divined  her  trouble,  and  the  cause  of  it,  and 
was  not  slow  to  comment  upon  either. 

"Her'll  come  back,  my  dear,  doan'tee  niver 
frit  yarself.  Her'll  come  back  to  yu,  zo  shar  as 
Vate.  And  doan'tee  niver  frit  her  neither,  wi' 
asking  vor  what  her  can't  give.  A  young  maid 
be  often  turble  shy  of  they  as  knows  her  best, 
though  seemingly  her's  ready  tu  give  her  very 
soul  to  the  first  stranger  as  axes  vor't.  Mind 
how  'twas  in  yure  own  yuth,  my  lady,  and  doan'tee 
git  blaming  on  she.  Wait  till  her  has  children 
of  her  own,  and  knows  what  'tis." 

"But  she  will  be  a  middle-aged  woman  by  then, 
Roper.  And  I  want  my  child's  love  and  confi- 
dence now,"  said  Catherine,  smiling  rather  sadly. 

"Doan't  us  arl  know  the  feeling  on't,  gentle  ar 
zimple?"  cried  Roper,  with  zealous  sympathy. 
"Luke  tu  my  little  Johnny,  zech  a  wonderful 
gude  bye  as  he  used  to  be,  like  a  little  rose  as 
'twere,  wi'  his  curly  hair  zo  bright  as  zunshine, 
and  putting  of  his  tu  arms  round  my  neck  zo 
loving  as  cude  be.    And  luke  tu  him  now,  a  great 


378  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

hulking  man,  wi'  a  vace  zo  red  as  a  beet,  and 
making  a  great  calf  of  hisself  vor  love  of  that 
vamous  trapsing  maid  of  Joe  Brume's  as  I  can't 
abide  the  zight  on't,  vor  her  du  flout  him  proper. 
And  yit  I  doan't  complain,  my  lady,"  said  Roper, 
in  subdued  tones;  "var  'tis  nart  but  nature, 
when  arl's  said  and  done,  and  'tain't  no  use  going 
against  it." 

But  with  the  dawn  of  October  came  the  bustle 
of  change  and  arrival;  for  Augusta  had  sent 
word  that  she  now  felt  able  to  collect  her  per- 
sonal belongings  at  the  Abbey,  and  remove  them 
to  her  London  house;  while  Lady  Sarah,  not 
to  be  outdone,  suggested  at  the  same  time  that 
she  would  like  to  pay  a  visit  to  her  old  home 
before  the  proposed  final  breaking  up  of  the  es- 
tablishment there,  and  hinted  adroitly  that  she 
should  expect  to  find  Catherine  and  Philippa 
established  in  their  proper  place  there  to  receive 
her. 

Catherine  once  more  received  a  pathetic  letter 
from  her  mother-in-law. 

"The  recollections  of  such  a  visit,"  wrote 
Lady  Sarah,  "however  melancholy  the  associa- 
tion, must  greatly  cheer  the  closing  days  of 
my  existence;  and,  moreover,  my  dear  love,  it  is 
just  as  well,  in  our  sweet  Philippa's  interests,  that 
some  one  as  intimately  acquainted  as  I  am  with 
the  Adelstane  treasures  should  be  present  to  keep 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  379 

an  eye  upon  Augusta's  claims;  who  has  no  con- 
science whatever,  I  regret  to  say,  where  hric-h-hrac 
is  concerned." 

George  Chilcott  earnestly  seconded  Lady  Sarah's 
proposition,  and  Catherine  accordingly  went 
quietly  down  to  the  Abbey  with  her  daughter 
one  afternoon,  and  took  possession  of  her  old 
rooms  there. 

Lady  Sarah  and  Augusta  arrived  the  same 
evening,  and  the  sparring  matches  that  imme- 
diately ensued  left  Catherine  little  time  for  mem- 
ories or  for  sentiment,  for  she  had  much  ado 
to  keep  the  peace  between  them  at  all;  while 
civility  obliged  her  to  sympathise  with  Augusta, 
in  the  privacy  of  her  apartment,  after  they  had 
retired  upstairs  for  the  night. 

"It  will  not  be  so  bad  to-morrow,"  she  said, 
consolingly,  ' '  for  Mr.  Ash  will  be  here,  and  George 
will  bring  over  David  Moore,  who  is  coming 
to  Bridescombe  for  a  few  days;  you  know  Lady 
Sarah  is  always  in  a  better  humour  when  there 
are  a  few  people  about,  and  that  she  hates  being 
alone." 

"At  her  age,  with  one  foot  in  the  grave,  it 
seems  to  me  most  extraordinary  that  she  could 
cling  to  the  company  of  gentlemen  as  she  does," 
said  Augusta.  "But  the  one  thing  I  insist  upon, 
Catherine,  is  that  not  even  George  Chilcott  or 
David  Moore  must  be  asked  to  dinner,  while  I 
am  in  such  deep  mourning.     You  must  remem- 


380  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

ber  that  though  they  may  be  your  relations 
they  are  not  mine.  Luncheon  I  do  not  mind  so 
much;  but  I  draw  the  line  at  dinner." 

Catherine  soothed  her  by  assurances  that  her 
wishes  should  be  respected,  and  that  her  hospital- 
ity to  her  cousins  should  be  strictly  limited  by 
the  clock,  during  Augusta's  visit,  and  the  widow 
gradually  grew  calmer,  though  her  complaints 
were  still  numerous. 

"Did  I  tell  you  how  oddly  Blanche  behaved 
to  me  abroad?  Towards  the  end  of  our  stay  at 
Plombi^res  she  scarcely  spoke  to  me,  though 
I  had  lost  nearly  half  a  stone  in  weight,  and  was 
feeling  as  weak  as  a  cat.  We  were  quite  thankful 
to  part.  Since  then  she  has  not  written  once,  and 
if  you  will  believe  me,  she  forgot  my  birthday!" 

"Perhaps  she  thought  that  under  the  circum- 
stances"—  hinted  Catherine,  delicately. 

"I  should  have  imagined  that  under  the  cir- 
cumstances she  would  have  been  more  anxious 
than  ever  to  show  she  had  not  forgotten  me, 
since  there  was  no  one  else  to  remember,"  said 
Augusta  tearfully,  and  Catherine  felt  conscience- 
stricken,  for  she,  too,  had  forgotten  this  interesting 
anniversary,  and  could  not  feel  sure  that  Augusta's 
reproach  was  not  directed  partly  towards  her- 
self. "It's  the  attention  I  care  for,"  said 
Augusta.  "If  she  had  even  written,  though  that 
would  have  been  disappointing  enough,  since  she 
can't   write   letters,  and   she  can  buy  presents. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  381 

I  only  expected  a  trifle.  But  to  be  forgotten 
altogether!  Last  year  she  sent  me  that  dia- 
mond pendant  with  the  pink  pearL" 

"I  remember.    It  was  very  handsome." 

"She  can  well  afford  it,"  said  Augusta,  resent- 
fully. ' '  She  has  no  expenses  whatever.  A  tailor- 
made  suit  and  a  motor,  and  there  she  is!  Or 
rather,  where  is  she? — for  she  flies  all  over  the 
place,  and  one  never  knows  even  where  to  send  a 
telegram  or  a  postcard  to  remind  her  of  any- 
thing. By  the  by,  when  does  Grace's  wedding 
come  off?  I'm  told,  now  that  it  is  settled,  Mrs. 
Chilcott  has  quite  come  round,  and  is  boasting 
of  Grace's  connections,  as  though  they  were  her 
own,  which  must  be  very  unpleasant  for  Grace. 
But,  however,  as  she  and  her  daughter  are  going 
off  to  live  at  Cheltenham,  it  will  not  signify  so 
much.  My  maid  told  me  all  this,  and  she  heard 
the  wedding  was  fixed  for  Christmas.  Since 
her  engagement  I  have  heard  next  to  nothing 
from  Grace." 

"They  are  to  be  married  very  soon.  I  do  not 
think  the  date  is  fixed." 

"Well,  I  hope  she  may  be  happy;  but  I  must 
say  I  think  George  Chilcott  is  a  great  fool,  for 
she  hasn't  a  halfpenny  in  the  world  beyond  her 
four  hundred  a  year.  And  she  has  very  extrava- 
gant tastes.    She  dresses  better  than  I  do." 

"Come,  Augusta,  you  know  you  are  very  fond 
of  her." 


382  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

"I  used  to  be  fond  of  her;  but  one  can't  go 
on  being -fond  of  a  person  who  gives  her  whole 
attention  to  somebody  else.  Talk  of  loving 
your  enemies,"  said  Augusta,  in  melancholy 
tones,  "I  must  say  I  have  always  found  it  more 
difficult  to  love  my  friends.  One  has  so  few 
enemies  they  hardly  count;  but  one  always  has 
friends  and  relations,  and  they  always  say  horrid 
things  either  to  you  or  about  you,  like  Lady 
Sarah,  or  get  tired  of  you  and  go  mooning  about 
after  somebody  else,  like  Grace." 

Lady  Sarah  was  already  in  bed  when  Catherine, 
in  response  to  a  message  from  Tailer,  visited  her 
room,  and  very  picturesque  she  looked,  as  she 
lay  propped  up  among  her  pillows,  with  a  fringe 
of  silver  curls  neatly  stitched  inside  the  borders 
of  her  night-cap,  which  was  tied  with  pink  ribbons 
beneath  her  handsome  witch-like  old  face. 

"Well,  my  love,  so  here  we  are  again.  I  see 
you  have  taken  care  to  give  me  my  own  old  room, 
a  thing  Augusta  never  had  the  grace  to  do  in  all 
her  sixteen  years  of  ownership  here.  I  assure 
you,  my  love,  I  am  very  sensible  of  the  attention, 
and  I  made  a  point  of  letting  Augusta  know  it. 
If  anything  could  console  me  for  what  has  hap- 
pened, it  is  the  thought  that  that  woman  is 
ousted  from  her  place  here,"  said  Lady  Sarah, 
with  an  energy  that  belied  her  age.  "Pray  did 
you  hear  her  advising  me  to  begin  Swedish  exer- 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  383 

cises  at  once,  and  offering  to  teach  me  to  breathe  ? 
Teach  me  to  breathe!"  said  Lady  Sarah,  with 
great  indignation.  "I  have  managed  to  breathe 
for  eighty  odd  years,  however,  without  Augusta's 
help,  I  beheve." 

"Dear  Lady  Sarah,  won't  you  be  at  peace  even 
with  poor  Augusta  just  now?"  said  Catherine, 
entreatingly.  "You  are  at  home,  in  your  old 
place,  and,  however  sadly  it  came  about,  I  am 
thankful  to  see  you  there.  But  my  heart  is  very 
full  to-night." 

"To  be  sure,  poor  child,  you  have  not  slept 
under  this  roof  since  our  poor  Philip —  Ah, 
Catherine,  I  talk  of  Augusta,  or  anything  else, 
to  keep  myself  from  dwelling  on — what  has 
happened,"  said  Lady  Sarah,  in  a  trembling  voice; 
"I  am  like  Beaumarchais'  Figaro,  I  must  needs 
laugh  lest  I  weep.  I  have  gone  through  life 
laughing,  upon  that  principle." 

"You  are  braver  than  I,"  said  Catherine. 

"I  need  to  be,"  said  the  old  woman,  "with 
nothing  before  me  but — the  dark,  and  an  eternal 
good-night.  At  my  age  one  puts  one's  head  on 
the  pillow  every  night  with  the  pleasing  certainty 
that  Death  cannot  be  far  off.  .  .  .  When  my 
time  comes,  Catherine,  for  slipping  away  into 
the  unknown,  I  would  not  mind  seeing  your  kind 
little  face  by  my  bedside." 

Catherine  touched  her  hand  caressingly. 

"You  won't  be  afraid?"  she  said  softly. 


384  CATHERINE'S   CHILD 

"No,  my  dear,  I  shall  not  be  afraid." 

Lady  Sarah  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and 
then  spoke  again: 

"But  you  have  half  your  life  before  you  still, 
little  Catherine,  and  perhaps  the  happiest  part." 

By  the  light  of  the  fire  she  saw  Catherine 
shake  her  head. 

"No — for  the  happiest  part  of  a  woman's 
life  is  when  she  is  absolutely  and  individually 
necessary  to  some  one's  happiness.  That  time 
will  never  come  to  me  again,  now  Philippa  is 
grown  up.  But  I  have  her  safe,  and  I  am  content. 
I  ask  no  more." 

"I  ask  a  good  deal  more,  for  I  want  to  see 
Philippa's  son  before  I  die,"  said  Lady  Sarah, 
grimly.  "The  sooner  she  marries  David  Moore, 
and  settles  down  here,  the  better  I  shall  be 
pleased." 

"David  Moore!"  Catherine  drew  her  breath, 
startled.  "Do  you  think —  But  I  am  sure — I 
am  certain  he  looks  upon  her  as  a  child." 

"Stuff  and  nonsense;  there  are  eighteen  years 
between  them — a  very  proper  difference.  He 
called  upon  me  in  town  yesterday,  my  love,  and 
told  me  he  had  been  offered  the  post  of  military 
attache — I  will  not  say  where,  as  it  is  still  a  secret; 
but  it  is  everything  that  is  most  delightful.  Of 
course,  I  saw  in  a  moment  why  he  came  and 
told  me  all  about  it.  He  is  spoken  of  everywhere 
as  a  very  rising  man,  I  find,  and  he  is  only  at 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  385 

the  beginning  of  his  career  at  five  or  six  and 
thirty.  And  as  he  belongs  to  no  particular  family, 
of  course  he  will  make  no  objection  to  taking 
the  name  of  Adelstane.  In  fact,  it  will  help  him 
along,  and  he  will  probably  get  the  baronetcy 
back  into  the  bargain  one  of  these  days.  It 
won't  hurt  his  career  to  have  a  rich  wife.  Besides, 
he  is  a  fine  handsome  fellow,  very  unlike  that 
poor  little  ch^tif  Kentisbury.  So  now  you 
know  why  I  was  so  anxious  to  come  down, 
my  love." 

Catherine  hardly  listened  to  these  details; 
she  was  dumb,  with  a  surprise  half  pleasurable, 
half  painful. 

David — and  Philippa.    Her  little  Phil. 

"There  is  no  reason  for  delay  that  I  know  of," 
said  Lady  Sarah,  "though  I  daresay  he  will 
want  a  little  encouragement,  since  he  is  a  chival- 
rous and  disinterested  kind  of  person — ^just  the 
sort  to  jib  at  an  heiress — they  are  very  rare 
nowadays.  I  don't  mean  heiresses,  but  disinter- 
ested men.  However,  I  know  one  when  I  see 
one.  I  took  care  to  let  him  know  she  had  re- 
fused Kentisbury.  Their  marriage  could  be 
next  June,  when  Philippa  will  be  seventeen,  and 
the  engagement  will  keep  her  happy  and  con- 
tented all  the  winter,  and  give  you  time  to  buy 
her  clothes.  For  my  part,  I  hope  he  will  speak 
out  as  soon  as  possible.    I  hate  shilly-shally." 

"You  will  not  say  anything — you  will  not  do 

•5 


386  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

anything — to  bring  it  about."  Catherine  hardly 
knew  what  she  said. 

"I!  Is  it  Hkely?"  said  Lady  Sarah,  with  a 
guilty  twinkle  in  her  blue  eyes.  ' '  By-the-by, 
I  did  perhaps  suggest  his  running  down  here 
to  see  us  all;  for  he  let  out  to  me,  quite  un- 
consciously, that  he  had  been  keeping  away  by 
design." 

"I  have  wondered  why'  he  did  not  come," 
said  Catherine,  and  paused,  while  a  thousand 
indications  of  Philippa's  feelings  towards  David 
rushed  upon  her  mind,  and  brought  conviction. 

"You  need  wonder  no  longer,  my  love,  but  go  to 
bed  and  dream  of  the  future,  since  we  cannot 
alter  the  past,  dream  as  we  will;  whereas,  with 
a  little  care  and  forethought  it  is  sometimes 
possible  to  shape  the  future  to  one's  ends.  I 
confess  it  gives  me  pleasure  to  think  of  Philippa's 
son  reigning  over  the  Abbey;  though,  as  a  rule, 
I  consider  the  happiness  of  being  a  grandmother 
is  much  overrated.  How  it  can  make  any  woman 
of  experience  happy  to  stand  by  and  see  her  sons 
and  daughters  mismanaging  their  children,  I 
have  never  yet  been  able  to  understand,"  said 
Lady  Sarah. 

Philippa  sat  alone  under  a  great  oak-tree,  which 
spread  gnarled  branches  above  a  grassy  mound 
in  the  grounds  of  Welwysbere. 

It  was  late  afternoon,  and  the  sleepy  twittering 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  387 

of  birds,  the  calls  of  the  wood-pigeons  from  one 
grove  to  another,  alone  broke  the  silence. 

Among  the  motionless  trees  there  stretched 
away  an  open  space  of  green  before  her,  where 
Italian  vases  of  carven  stone  gleamed  whitely 
from  their  grey  weather-stained  pedestals  upon 
the  velvet  turf,  holding  up  glowing  burdens  of  rose 
and  scarlet  branching  bloom,  vivid  in  the  low  light. 

A  group  of  autumn  flowers,  orange  tritonias, 
cactus  dahlias,  and  white  standard  hydrangeas, 
broke  the  vista  of  green  upon  green. 

The  rest  fulness  of  age,  of  centuries  of  cultiva- 
tion, was  upon  the  garden.  The  sun  was  setting, 
and  the  low  dazzling  rays  gleamed  through  the 
lime-trees  of  the  western  avenue.  A  cock  phea- 
sant ran  across  the  red  path,  unheeding  the 
motionless  figure;  two  little  rabbits  stole  from 
beneath  the  rhododendrons,  and  played,  un- 
suspecting, on  the  grass. 

Beyond,  the  mighty  oaks  and  tall  elms  stretched 
away  in  perspective  into  the  mist  of  distance  and 
approaching  eve;  the  shining  road  wound  away 
from  the  portals  of  the  great  house  that  was  hers, 
to  the  unseen  village  below. 

The  melancholy  of  this  solitary  comer  of  her 
wide  domain  suited  with  her  mood ;  for  her  heart 
ached  with  that  sense  of  longing  and  loneliness 
and  disappointment  which  is  even  harder  to  bear 
in  youth  than  in  age. 

Report  said  that  Colonel  Moore  had  been  out 


388  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

shooting  with  George  Chilcott  all  the  afternoon, 
but  he  had  not  come  to  the  Abbey,  though  the 
irrepressible  Lady  Sarah  had  dropped  many 
hints  that  morning  to  Philippa  of  poor  suitors 
who  required  encouragement  from  rich  maidens. 
She  had  even  gone  so  far  as  to  relate  the  story 
of  the  rose  given  by  a  reigning  queen  to  a  silent 
prince,  in  token  of  the  love  that  he  must  not 
and  she  dared  not  speak. 

But  whereas  in  many  maidens  of  sixteen  an 
outwardly  childish  aspect  conceals  much  inward 
and  womanly  guile,  yet  in  Philippa's  case  her 
womanly  appearance  was  belied  by  a  most 
sincere  simplicity,  and  she  could  no  more  have 
profited  by  Lady  Sarah's  hints  than  she  could 
have  put  into  words  the  love  and  longing  which 
now  possessed  her  bosom. 

Nevertheless,  her  heart  beat  faster  when  she 
presently  perceived,  at  the  far  end  of  the  open 
glade  before  her,  the  figures  of  George  Chilcott 
and  David  Moore,  each  with  a  gun  under  his 
arm.  She  knew  that  in  her  white  gown  she 
must  be  visible  to  them  both,  but  at  the  open- 
ing in  the  bushes  which  led  to  the  stables  she 
saw  George  pause,  speak  to  his  companion,  and 
turn  away  into  the  by-path. 

David  came  towards  her,  alone,  and  as  she 
lifted  her  eyes  to  his  face  something  gentle  and 
wistful  in  his  expression  made  her  rise  and  come 
down  to  meet  him. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  389 

With  a  mixture  of  simplicity  and  stateliness 
that  became  her  extreme  youth  and  her  personal 
dignity  very  well,  Philippa  put  her  hand  into 
his. 

Catherine,  in  her  plain  black  gown,  sat  at  the 
writing-table  in  the  great  hall  at  the  Abbey,  and 
through  the  great  muUioned  window  perceived 
David,  walking  slowly  across  the  park,  in  the  low 
afternoon  sunshine,  by  Philippa's  side. 

The  hall  door  stood  open;  the  deer  were 
couched  in  a  circle  upon  the  edge  of  the  turf 
beyond  the  drive,  in  the  shadow  of  a  majestic 
cedar;  the  red  Devon  cattle  browsed  quietly  in 
the  sunshine.  The  tall  elms  threw  long  shadows 
over  the  grass,  and  the  loud  cawing  of  the  rooks 
sounded  through  the  open  doorway. 

The  great  clock  in  the  comer  ticked  loudly 
in  the  silence.  At  the  foot  of  the  pillars  which 
supported  the  arched  roof  stood  groups  of  ferns 
and  exotic  plants,  lovely  in  form  and  colour 
and  scent,  lighting  up  the  darkness  of  the  black 
oak  with  which  the  hall  was  lined,  and  the  sombre 
family  portraits  hung  upon  the  panels. 

Numberless  blue  porcelain  bowls  and  pots  and 
jars  of  every  shape  and  size,  filled  with  pot-pourri ^ 
stood  on  the  shelves  and  in  the  recesses  of  the 
carved  oaken  mantelpiece,  as  they  had  stood 
for  generations  past. 

Catherine  found  herself  dwelling  regretfully  on 


390  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

the  thought  that  the  Abbey  was  presently  to 
pass,  even  for  a  time,  into  the  hands  of  strangers. 
She  wondered  at  the  indifference  with  which 
she  had  hitherto  regarded  her  child's  inheritance. 

Now  that  she  sat  here,  in  her  former  place, 
as  chdtelaine,  she  became  sensible  once  more 
of  the  charm  possessed  by  an  ancient  and  stately 
house  for  its  inmates;  the  charm  of  light,  of 
space,  and  solitude  at  will;  of  echoing  tradition 
in  old-world  chambers,  of  dim  arched  corridors, 
of  silent  rooms  unoccupied  and  haunted  with 
memories,  of  treasures  collected  under  one  roof, 
belonging  to  several  centuries,  and  linked  by 
the  ownership  of  successive  generations. 

A  change  of  atmosphere  often  changes  the 
point  of  view,  and  just  now  the  spell  of  her 
haven  at  Shepherd's  Rest  relaxed  and  grew 
fainter,  the  claims  of  her  cottage  life  seemed  less 
compelling. 

She  laid  down  her  pen  and  waited — ^with  beat- 
ing heart. 

David  and  Philippa  came  into  the  hall  together, 
and  Philippa,  without  observing  her  mother, 
passed  with  light,  swift  steps  and  mounted  the 
branching  staircase  to  the  gallery  above.  Then 
David,  left  alone,  saw  Catherine. 

He  put  down  his  gun,  and  came  and  stood 
beside  the  writing-table,  looking  down  upon  her 
with  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  brown  shoot- 
ing jacket. 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  391 

"Catherine,  will  you  trust  your  child  to  me?" 

"Far — far  sooner  than  to  any  one  else  in  the 
world." 

"I  didn't  mean  to  say  anything  to  her,  or  to 
you  yet,"  he  said,  and  the  colour  mounted  in 
his  thin,  tanned  face.    "But  Lady  Sarah " 

"Oh,  Lady  Sarah!  She  is  impayahle,''  said 
Catherine,  with  a  little  nervous  laugh,  half  amuse- 
ment, half  embarrassment. 

"She  has  spoken  to  you?"  said  David. 

"Last  night  she  spoke  of  her  fear  that  you 
might  need — encouragement,"  said  Catherine. 

He  laughed. 

"Did  she  think  it  was  the  Abbey  that  stood 
in  the  way?  No,  no;  it  was  her  youth,"  he  said 
simply,  "but  when  I  heard  about  Kentisbury! 
Though  I  know  it  can't  be  just  yet,"  he  ended, 
rather  confusedly. 

"I  have  come  roimd  to  Lady  Sarah's  way  of 
thinking,"  said  Catherine.  "I  believe  my  Phil 
will  be  happier  married  young — if  only  it  is 
to  the  right  man." 

"I  hope  I  am  the  right  man,"  he  said  wistfully. 
"I  am  afraid  all  the  advantages,  besides  youth, 
are  on  her  side,  though.  But  she's  too  generous 
to  think  so,  and  I'll  devote  my  life  to  making 
her  happy,  Catherine." 

"I  think  you  will  make  her  happy,"  Catherine 
said. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  faint,  pathetic  smile 


392  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

hovering  over  her  lips.  Certainly  Lady  Sarah 
was  right.  David  was  a  fine  handsome  man. 
Strength  and  energy  seemed  personified  in  his 
tall,  broad-shouldered  figure,  and  from  his  clear 
eyes  shone  sympathy,  humour,  and  intelligence. 

The  most  casual  observer  could  have  seen  all 
this;  but  Catherine  was  something  more  than  a 
casual  observer.  Her  intimate  knowledge  of 
Delia  revealed  to  her  very  fully  the  character  of 
David,  while  the  intensity  of  her  love  for  Philippa 
gave  her  also  something  of  the  sensation  of  a 
clairvoyante  gazing  for  a  brief  moment  into  the 
future.  She  perceived  that  a  time  would  come 
when  this  eager  sensitive  man  would  appeal  in 
vain  for  sympathy  and  understanding  to  her 
cold,  beautiful  child,  who  was  yet  as  sincere,  as 
upright,  and  as  guileless  as  her  father  had  been 
before  her.  What  did  David  know  of  her  child's 
heart — ^who  had  fallen  in  love  with  the  curve 
of  a  lovely  mouth,  the  glint  of  a  blue  eye; 
who  was  bewitched,  in  a  word,  by  youth  and 
beauty,  and  the  triumphant  secret  sense  of  love 
returned? 

And  she  would  not  be  able  to  help  him — ^nor 
to  help  Philippa. 

She  could  not  live  their  lives,  and,  though  she 
understood  David  so  well  that  she  often  knew 
what  he  was  going  to  say  before  he  spoke,  she 
could  not  make  Philippa  do  the  same. 

On  the  strength  of  their  love  must  their  hap- 


CATHERINE'S  CHILD  393 

piness  depend — the  love  that  bHnded  David 
now — that  she  prayed  might  blind  him  always — 
to  the  limitations  of  Philippa. 

His  voice — the  voice  of  a  happy  lover — broke 
in  upon  her  thoughts. 

"Catherine,  she  hates  the  idea  of  letting  the 
Abbey — it  must  not  be." 

"You  won't  give  up  your  work,"  she  cried, 
startled  and  anxious.  "You  won't  settle  down 
here  yet?" 

"No,  no,  no.  She  is  as  keen  as  I  am  over  my 
work,  God  bless  her!  She  will  come  abroad  with 
me — when  the  time  comCvS — but  we'll  talk  of  that 
later.  In  any  case,  I  hope  we  shan't  be  free  to 
settle  down  for  many  a  long  year  yet.  But  it 
it  would  be  nice  to  have  the  place  always  ready 
to  come  back  to.  Catherine — we  want  you  to 
come  here,  and  make  your  home  here,  and  look 
after  everything  and  keep  it  going.  No  one  could 
do  it  so  well  as  you.  It  would  be  a  kind  of  head- 
quarters for  them  all :  poor  Aunt  Dulcinea — Lady 
Sarah — whom  you  would.  And  letting  the  place 
for  three  or  four  years,  as  Ash  proposes,  couldn't 
make  any  real  difference  to  Philippa's  interests. 
Besides  she  is  quite  willing  to  make  any  sacrifice 
to  have  it  so,  if  you  will  consent." 

"I  was  thinking  just  now — I  should  not  care 
to  see  strangers  here,"  she  said  slowly,  "and — 
after  all,  the  place  is  very  dear  to  me." 

"To  be  sure  it  must  be,  since  it  was  your  home. 


394  CATHERINE'S  CHILD 

You,  too,"  said  David,  rather  tenderly,  "have 
loved  here." 

"I  have  lived  and  loved,"  she  said  dreamily. 

"And  been  loved,"  he  added  warmly. 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him  quickly,  upon  a 
sudden  impulse;  and  though  she  immediately 
looked  away  again,  David  read  the  mute  denial 
of  his  last  words  in  her  eyes. 

Thus  Catherine  came  back  to  the  Abbey,  and 
took  care  of  it  for  her  child,  and  for  the  children 
of  her  child.  The  belief  which  belongs  to  youth, 
that  life  must  be  holding  some  definite  prize  in 
reserve — some  wonderful  happening  that  time 
will  presently  reveal — gradually  died  away,  and 
she  asked  herself,  Is  this  all?  with  the  wistful- 
ness  of  middle  age;  yet  realising  her  destiny 
at  last,  with  a  submission  to  Fate  that  held  more 
of  amusement  than  of  regret. 

Doubtless  she  would  presently  grow  to  be  con- 
tent that  this  was  all;  for,  though  there  may  be 
many  mortals  who  feel  at  times  even  their  daily 
existence  to  be  something  of  a  burden,  yet  there 
are  but  few  who  are  ready  and  willing  to  lay  that 
burden  down. 

THE   END 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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